


The face he can't forget

by CoffeeKristin



Category: Hockey RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Notting Hill Fusion, Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Pining, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-04
Updated: 2017-05-04
Packaged: 2018-10-24 07:46:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 33,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10737270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeKristin/pseuds/CoffeeKristin
Summary: When Patrick scores the game winner in overtime, he shouts with joyful abandon at his teammates, sporting the same big grin he’d flashed at Jonny earlier. It hits something deep inside of Jonny, something that justwants, and he’s suddenly glad he didn’t ask for Patrick’s number. Even in the completely unlikely chance that Patrick would be interested in him, there’s no way he’d be able to date him; and when they inevitably broke up, Jonny would be left devastated, pining over Patrick’s face plastered all over the city.No, better that he keep his little crush at a safe distance, like all the other hockey fans—all the other Kaner fans—in Chicago.





	1. He may be the face I can’t forget

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jezziejay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jezziejay/gifts).



> This is an AU of "Notting Hill" that I wrote for the incomparable [jezziejay](http://archiveofourown.org/users/jezziejay/pseuds/jezziejay) when she told me how much she loves this film. She sees Jonny as Julia and Patrick as Hugh, and since I always thought of Patrick as Julia and Jonny as Hugh, I wanted to prove that it works this way, too. So here's my attempt, which somehow turned into 30K. Oops. 
> 
> And now Mia owes us all the Jonny-as-Julia version, don't you think? No pressure, doll, but... :)
> 
> Special thanks, as always, to my darling Katie, who beta'd this for me and fixed a lot of its flaws. The ones that remain are my fault entirely. Thanks, as always, for being my soulmate and an awesome beta. Couldn't do any of this without you! Also big thanks to mosgirl9, who did a finally beta read through of this for me lightning quick! 
> 
> Finally, thanks to allthebros for holding the Reel1988 fest that made me get off my ass and finish editing this monster by giving me a firm deadline (and then being flexible enough to extend it. Twice.) So glad it worked out to post as part of the fest!
> 
> Title and chapter titles stolen (with gender changes!) from Elvis Costello's "She".

Jonny’s putzing around in back when the bell over his shop door jangles. He’s expecting Brent and Duncan to stop by in fifteen minutes for lunch, but they’re often early, so he just shouts out a, “hey, be there in a sec,” and turns back to the box of reels he’s unpacking.

“Sorry, are you closed?” An uncertain voice responds. It’s sounds like a customer, and Jonny dusts off his slacks as he hurries out front. He doesn’t get many people in during the dead of winter, and the guy probably just needs directions, but he can’t help hoping it’s one of his regulars. He makes most of his money off internet traffic, but he opened this shop because he wanted to have more personal interactions with his clients, and now that it’s almost spring, he’s looking forward to the walk-in traffic picking up again.

“Sorry, sorry,” Jonny says as he comes into the shop. “Thought you were— Patrick Kane?”

“You thought it was me?” The man himself says from where he’s standing near the door, mouth twisted a little to the side like he’s biting back a grin.

“No— I— yeah. Uh, no, sorry,” Jonny stutters out, a little dazed at seeing Patrick Kane in his store. “I thought it was my buddies, or, you know, a regular. I never expected— Uh. Let me start over.” Jonny inhales deeply, managing to cut off his babbling. He blows out a long, slow breath before trying again. “So, er. Welcome to _Jonny’s Downtown Bait and Tackle._ What can I do for you?”

Patrick Kane blinks at Jonny, his mouth opening and closing slowly. Jonny can practically see his brain churning as he sorts through the obvious jokes, and Jonny sighs, motioning with his hand. “Go ahead. Get them out of your system.”

“Well…” Patrick smirks. “Let’s start with _Downtown_ Bait and Tackle?” He quirks his head. “Is there much call for a _downtown_ fishing store?”

“No,” Jonny admits ruefully, unable to hold back an answering smile, surprised and pleased Patrick didn’t make a dick joke. “Not really.”

“Or in Chicago at all?”

“Well, there’s a giant lake about two blocks that way,” Jonny says dryly.

“Now that I think about it, is there much call for any fishing stores anywhere?” Patrick asks, mock-consideringly, ignoring Jonny.

“Hey now, you’re the one in my fishing store in February, I don’t think you have any reason to be casting stones, buddy,” Jonny protests. Patrick’s smirk gets bigger, dimples appearing in his cheeks, and Jonny can actually feel his heart pound harder in his chest, like he’s back in junior high and the cutest boy in school just smiled at him.

Which, come to think of it, isn’t far from what’s happening right now. Because the reigning MVP, alternate captain of the Chicago Blackhawks, and most popular athlete in the city is standing in Jonny’s store, chirping him.

“Good point,” Patrick agrees while Jonny’s trying to pull himself together, looking around the shop with interest. “I was thinking of buying… hmm. A rod? Yeah, maybe a fishing rod. What do you recommend?”

“You fish?” Jonny asks doubtfully.

“Not really,” Patrick replies, his smile almost blinding. It’s flustering enough that Jonny fumbles his way through an explanation of how to pick out a rod that works. Patrick’s nice enough to listen attentively, but after skimming a hand over the rods on display, he shakes his head. “None of these really speak to me, you know? Don’t feel quite right in my hands.” They both look down to where he’s gripping the rod.

“Mr. Kane — “

“Kaner,” Patrick interjects. “Call me Kaner.”

“Oh, uh, okay. Kaner. And I’m Jonny.” Jonny says, a little discomfited that he’s apparently on a nickname basis with the leading scorer in the fucking National Hockey League. “You’re not really in the market for a fishing rod. Are you?”

“You got me,” Patrick says ruefully. “I was on my way to get a burrito at Chipotle when a bunch of teenage girls spotted me. I saw your place and figured they wouldn’t follow me inside a fishing store. So here I am.”

“Want me to see if they’re gone?”

“Would you?” Patrick asks sheepishly. “I, uh, I don’t normally mind fans, but I just want to get a burrito in peace for once.”

“Sure.“

“I get burrito for you?” Someone asks from behind Jonny, making them both jump, and Jonny turns to see Artemi grinning at Patrick with stars in his eyes. “Is no problem for best hockey player in Chicago.”

“Artemi — “ Jonny flushes. He’d totally forgotten Artemi was coming in early to cover for him so he could take lunch. “Didn’t realize you’d come in already.”

“Was in back, make tea,” Artemi says, walking closer and smiling eagerly at Patrick. “You want?”

“No, uh, thanks,” Patrick says, smiling back, but the easy grin he'd been wearing earlier has been replaced with a more superficial one Jonny recognizes from his post-game interviews. “I should probably get going anyway.”

“Let me make sure they’re gone?” Jonny asks a little desperately as he follows Patrick to the front, wishing he could think of any acceptable way to prolong this encounter. Or ask for his number. He’s not even sure Patrick’s gay—despite the rumors he’s heard over the years—but the way Patrick was flirting, he thinks he might be. And that’s making Jonny want things he has no business wanting from a superstar NHL player like Patrick Kane.

“Nah, nevermind. If they’re out there I’ll just deal,” Patrick says, and pauses, the door open a little, letting the cold February wind rushes into the small opening. “Thanks for showing me around your store, Jonny.”

“No problem! And if you ever decide to fish, I’d love to get one of my rods in your hands.” Patrick blinks at Jonny again, and Jonny barely avoids face palming. “Well, anyway, let me know if you change your mind. And, uh, good luck in the playoffs,” Jonny adds a little lamely, wincing at himself.

“It’s only February, but thanks for the vote of confidence. And I’ll think about that fishing rod,” Patrick says with a twinkle, and then he’s gone, slipping his toque back on his head and blending in with the pedestrians flowing past.

“Bye, Kaner,” Jonny says dumbly even though the man’s already gone.

“You should ask for number,” Artemi tuts from behind him, peering over his shoulder. “He like you. Make big smile for you.”

“He’s a superstar hockey player,” Jonny scoffs. “Why would he want to go out with me?” It probably comes out a little more forlorn than it should.

Artemi rolls his eyes and looks pointedly at Jonny’s butt. “You have, how they say? Assets?”

Jonny groans. “You are definitely spending too much time with Seabs.”

Duncan and Brent come in a few minutes later, and Jonny knows he’s poor company, but he can’t help spending the entire lunch thinking about Patrick and the way his eyes had lit up as he’d chirped Jonny about his shop. And how big his dimples had been. And how the coarse stubble he’d been sporting had looked almost ginger against his fair skin. He ignores Brent’s attempts to draw out why Jonny’s being so quiet and keeps his encounter to himself, unwilling to endure either teasing or pity for what he can admit is a ridiculous and hopeless crush.

He’s distracted the rest of the day, impatient to go up to his apartment above the shop and watch the Hawks game. When Patrick scores the game winner in overtime, he shouts with joyful abandon at his teammates, sporting the same big grin he’d flashed at Jonny earlier. It hits something deep inside of him, something that just _wants_ , and he’s suddenly glad he didn’t ask for Patrick’s number.

There’s no possible future for an ordinary guy like Jonny and a superstar hockey player like Patrick Kane. Even in the completely unlikely chance that Patrick would be interested in him, there’s no way he’d be able to date him. When they inevitably broke up, Jonny would be left devastated, pining over Patrick’s face plastered all over the city.

No, better that he keep his little crush at a safe distance, like all the other hockey fans—all the other _Kaner_ fans—in Chicago.

***

Two weeks later, February turns into March, bringing in a steady stream of spring fishing enthusiasts. Some are preparing to travel to warmer climes to fish in salt water bays or the ocean, others to pick up their hand-tied fly fishing lures and buy new rods before they head out west to rivers full of migrating salmon and trout. Jonny’s doing a good walk-in business, even without the online orders, for the first time since last fall, so Jonny’s not expecting anything other than another routine customer when the shop bell chimes on a sunny Wednesday afternoon.

He’s helping another customer with a complicated order, so he waves Artemi over without glancing up. When he finally wraps things up and bids the customer goodbye, he looks over to where Artemi and the man are conversing in front of a display of Brent’s travel catalogues. Jonny does a double take at the broad shoulders under the puffy, black coat and the blond curls peeking out from under a toque. He’s trying to convince himself that it can’t be Patrick when the man turns around.

It’s Patrick. He’s got an easy smile on his face, laughing at something Artemi’s saying, and when he catches Jonny’s eye, it brightens into a full grin. “Jonny!”

“Hi Kaner,” Jonny says. They stand there, smiling happily at each other until Artemi looks between the two of them, mutters something in Russian and disappears in the back.

“Was it something I said?” Patrick asks, mystified.

“No, uh, sorry, he’s just a little—“

“I call Artem, ask to take to lunch. Okay boss?” Artemi interjects as he emerges from the back. He leaves without waiting for an answer, and Jonny rolls his eyes when Artemi turns around the “We’re Open” sign so it reads “Back in Fifteen Minutes” and locks the door behind him. The double thumbs up he flashes at Jonny when he walks by the window make Patrick snort.

“I need to fire that kid,” Jonny mutters darkly, walking up front to switch the sign back and unlock the door.

“I don’t know, he seems nice enough,” Patrick muses.

“That’s just because you don’t know him yet.”

“Well, maybe I need to come around more often, so I can get to know both of you better.”

“I—“ Jonny stutters, flushing. “Yeah, that’s— I’d like that.”

“Good,” Patrick says, his cheeks an answering pink, finally breaking eye contact and looking up at the large stuffed fish mounted behind the back counter. “I saw that last time and meant to ask: did you catch it?”

“Yep,” Jonny confirms, unsure whether he’s disappointed or grateful that Patrick had changed the subject. But he’s more than a little proud of the forty-seven inch beauty, and he can’t help the satisfaction in his voice. “Caught it off the coast of Mexico about three years ago.”

“What is it?” Patrick asks, stepping behind the counter and peering up at it.

“A great barracuda.”

“It’s huge,” Patrick says admiringly, running a hand gently over the bottom fin after glancing at Jonny for permission to touch it. “Although I took you for more of a catch-and-release type of guy.”

“I am, usually,” Jonny agrees. “But this one ended up bashing itself pretty hard on the boat, got a nasty gash on it’s belly. There was no way it was going to survive, so my brother convinced me to bring it home and mount it. I’m not really one for trophy fishing, but it felt right to put him up here in the store, where he can watch over everything.”

The door chimes with another customer and Patrick steps back, pulling his hat down over his ears and hunching down a little.

“You okay?’ Jonny asks, puzzled. It’s the second time Patrick’s seemed uncomfortable with being recognized, and he wishes he knew him well enough to ask why.

“Yeah, I’m just gonna go,” Patrick replies. “Gotta catch a nap before the game.”

Jonny razzes Patrick about his grueling game day regime as he’s leaving, but he promises to watch the game. He can’t help spending the rest of the day grinning, even when Artemi rolls his eyes at him. He finally kicks Artemi out early so he can close up and grab a bite before the game starts, not wanting to miss the pre-game warmups.

If he watches just one person on the ice that night, well. He’s pretty sure he’s allowed.

***

Patrick’s back a few days later, this time quizzing Jonny about types of fly fishing reels he prefers, and a few days after that, asking him where he likes to go deep sea fishing when he’s in Florida. Jonny tries not to imagine Patrick googling fishing stuff to quiz him on, but it’s pretty clear Patrick’s been reading up on things, and that makes Jonny feel warm and happy in a way that he’s loathe to think about too long. It’s Patrick Kane, after all, and Jonny’s not dumb enough to get his hopes up that it means anything more than friendship.

Still, the visits continue and after a couple of weeks, the questions eventually turn into quiet conversations at a coffee shop a few doors down from Jonny’s store. Jonny talks about moving from Winnipeg, and Patrick tells him how hard it was to leave Buffalo when he was a kid in order to play for the US National Team.

“It was definitely worth it,” Patrick says, nibbling on a slice of lemon cake. “Just, it sucked, too, you know? I missed my kid sisters and my mom and dad, and Detroit was winning all the cups back then. It was gross.”

“Detroit winning cups,” Jonny shudders dramatically. “The horror.”

“Fuck off,” Patrick laughs, wadding up his napkin and throwing it at Jonny.

“Hey, in all seriousness, I understand how hard it is to be so far away from your family at that age. I went to boarding school when I was fifteen,” Jonny says. “I thought I might want to play soccer at an elite level, but it didn’t pan out.”

“Was it worth it for you?” Patrick asks, eyes searching Jonny’s. “Leaving home at that age?”

“Definitely,” Jonny says. “Taught me a lot about myself.” Patrick’s eyes are wide and blue, and Jonny has to look down and take a long drink of coffee before he does something stupid like lean across the table and kiss him. When he looks back up, Patrick’s not looking at him any more, just staring at his own coffee a little blindly.

“Yeah, for me, too,” Patrick says finally. “But still… I missed a lot, you know?”

Jonny doesn’t know, not really, because going to boarding school for two years of high school isn’t anything like what Patrick gave up for hockey. But he does know how to distract Patrick at this point, so he kicks him under the table gently until Patrick looks back at him. “Maybe you did miss out at home, but a big-shot hockey player like you? I grew up in Canada, I know how it goes in juniors. I bet you were fighting them off in high school, no parents around to get in the way.”

“Well...” Patrick drawls with a leer, the pinched look around his eyes is gone. “Maybe I was, but come on, you were in boarding school! Like you weren’t banging chicks left and right at that age, too.”

“I did okay,” Jonny says, glancing up and deciding to take a risk. “Just not with chicks.”

Patrick’s mouth opens and closes soundlessly. “Oh,” he says finally, voice husky. “That’s — that’s cool.”

“Yeah, I think so.” Jonny kicks his ankle again, and Patrick meets his eyes before looking down, his cheeks pinking up again. His eyelashes are dark against his cheeks, and Jonny suddenly wants to feel the heat of his blush so fiercely he literally sits on his hands to keep himself from reaching out.

“Anyway,” Patrick says, licking his lips, “you have to tell me something.”

“Sure,” Jonny says a little hoarsely. “Anything.”

“I’ve been dying to know — and don’t be offended, but… How the _fuck_ do you make a living selling fishing poles in the middle of downtown Chicago?”

Jonny laughs. “I don’t actually make my living on what I sell in the store.”

“Okay, now I’m really curious.” Patrick hums. “Let me guess. You work for Bass Pro Shops and you’re slumming.” Patrick laughs at Jonny’s outraged expression. “No? Hmm. A trust fund baby? Are you a mob boss and this is all an elaborate money laundering front? Oh, I bet you’re in the witness protection program!”

“Jesus, you’re weird,” Jonny laughs. “Also you’re clearly watching way too much TV. And, no, you’re way off.”

“So spill, then,” Patrick says, kicking Jonny under the table and leaving his foot resting against Jonny’s ankle.

“I — “ Jonny swallows and tries to pull his attention from where they’re touching. “It’s nowhere near that exciting. I just invented a kind of lure that I patented and sold.”

“Really?” Patrick’s eyebrows shoot up, impressed. “You invented a lure? Wait, they give out patents for fishing lures?”

“Yep. Well, for this kind, anyway. I designed a new way to incorporate a weight into the tie, so it’s completely undetectable to the fish. I sold them on my site until I couldn’t keep up with the demand and found a company willing to manufacture and retail them and they bought the patent. The store’s mostly just to keep busy, though. I make almost all my money from royalty checks.”

“Huh.” Patrick looks at him for a long moment, and then his face morphs from impressed to impish. “Who’d you sell to, Jon?”

“Just a big retailer,” Jonny mumbles, feeling his neck flush.

“Which _big retailer?_ Does it rhyme with _Mass Go Mops?”_ Patrick’s tongue pokes out from between his teeth.

“No! it’s Cabela’s. And fuck off,” Jonny says, throwing a sugar packet at Patrick, making him go off in gales of laughter.

“Oh my god, you’re such a sell-out,” Patrick gasps between giggles. He spends the next ten minutes razzing Jonny, but by the end of lunch, he’s relaxed and happy, the clouds in his eyes from earlier gone, so Jonny counts it as a win.

It gives Jonny the courage to ask Patrick for his number. “So I can text you when you’re being an ass on the ice,” Jonny jokes, and Patrick rolls his eyes. He holds out his hand for Jonny’s phone, programs his number in and sends himself a quick text.

When Jonny checks the message, all it says is: _Boom_

He’s exchanging texts with Patrick a few days later when Brent walks in and stops in the doorway.

“Why is your face doing that,” Brent demands, then grunts when Duncan bumps into him from behind. “Look at Jonny’s face, it’s doing something weird.”

Duncan frowns. “It’s called smiling, and he does it all the time.”

“You’re so literal,” Brent complains, thumping Duncan on the shoulder hard enough to make him growl a little.

“Jonny’s happy, just accept it,” Duncan says, pushing at Brent until he can crawl up on the counter. “The question is: who put that smile there?”

“Shut up,” Jonny says, flushing, grateful when the door opens to admit a guy who drove in from Lake Geneva to pick up several hand-tied jigs for his trip to Florida. He sends Brent and Duncan off to dinner without him, content to wrap up the sale and spend the evening on his couch watching Patrick eviscerate the Predators. When he gets an empty netter to seal his hat trick, Jonny whoops and jumps up like he’s on the ice with Patrick.

He pulls out his phone to send Patrick a quick congrats and sees he missed a text from him earlier. _”Make sure you watch tonight, got a good feeling about this game”_ and _”Might even be a showtime night”_

Jonny grins and rewinds the celly on Patrick’s last goal, laughing when Patrick turns to the camera in the corner and yells “Showtime!”

Jonny sends Patrick a quick congrats, chirping him about his celly before turning in.

He’s almost asleep when his phone dings and he glances over to see that Patrick’s responded. _”Next time you should come see it in person_ and _”If you want tickets, I might know a guy”_

_”I’d love that,”_ Jonny sends back. He goes to sleep happy, his dreams filled with great hockey and the sound of skates on freshly cleared ice.

***

The next time Patrick’s drops by, Jonny can’t take the time to get coffee. He’s filling a huge online order that’s getting shipped out that afternoon, so Patrick just hangs out in the back with him, chirping him as Jonny pulls together the custom jigs he spent the entire night making.

“So if I went to Cabela’s,” Patrick laughs at Jonny’s immediate frown, “and wanted to buy your super-special fishing thingie — “

“It’s called a lure,” Jonny rolls his eyes.

“Exactly, super-special fishing lure thingie, that’s what I said. Anyway. Where would I find it?”

“In the aisle marked super-special fishing thingies, of course,” Jonny says.

“Very funny,” Patrick kicks Jonny’s foot. “But what’s it called?”

“ _The Toews Tickler?_ ” Patrick wheezes between giggles. “Oh my God, how did I not know this before?”

“Shut up,” Jonny grumbles, but he’s smiling, too. “A tickler’s just something that light bounces off of in the water, to catch the fish’s attention—they’re attracted to it!”

“Oh, baby, I bet they are,” Patrick leers, then tries to pull his face into a serious expression. “No, no, I get it. Your tickler brings all the fish to the yard!” Patrick collapses into laughter again, holding his waist as he howls.

“Ugh,” Jonny says, leaning back against the shelf, arms crossed.

Patrick’s laughing so hard now that he’s crying, huge tears that make his eyelashes clump together, dark and wet, setting off the blue of his eyes as he keeps chirping Jonny. He’s finally wiping them away when Artemi comes into the back, carrying two Starbucks coffees and wearing a mischievous grin. “For boss and boss’s friend,” Artemi says, winking at them.

“Thanks,” Patrick says. “Gotta take this to-go, though. Got some media bullshit in an hour.” He zips up his coat and jams his toque lower over his ears. The only part of his hair that’s visible are the curls in back, and with his hair out of the way, the starkly handsome symmetry of his face stands out, his cheekbones and jaw perfectly sculpted. Jonny manages to look away quickly when Patrick glances up apologetically. “Leaving for a week tomorrow, too.” 

“Well, come back when you’re home,” Jonny says, hopefully not too eagerly. “Gotta keep schooling you about the best places to get seafood, because Ocean Cut is not it.”

“Yeah, yeah, seafood snob,” Patrick says. “Unfortunately my schedule’s kind of brutal for a while,” he adds with a sigh. “Gotta put in a lot of time at the rink before playoffs, you know?”

“Sure, sure. Just, you know, if you have time, come by. Anytime.”

“Definitely! No promises when, but… yeah.” Patrick says with a flash of his dimples as Jonny walks him out. Jonny’s watching Parick blend into the pedestrians when Artemi comes to stand next him.

“You like him,” Artemi says, pushing Jonny’s shoulder a little.

“I— Maybe,” Jonny admits, a grin breaking across his face. 

“He like you,” Artemi smirks.

Maybe, Jonny thinks.

***

Patrick keeps texting Jonny, but he hasn’t been in for over a week when Brent finally succeeds in getting Jonny to spill over drinks one night. He doesn’t tell Brent that the guy who’s been hanging around the shop is Patrick Kane, just that he thinks there might be something between them. He swears Artemi to secrecy, too, both about Patrick being in the shop and possibly being less than straight. It’s an interesting exercise that requires a lot of miming and a Russian-English dictionary. 

When Patrick still hasn’t been in a few days after their road trip ends, Jonny’s starting to worry he’s not going to come back and he’s moping around the shop, which gives Brent an excuse to call him out.

“It’s been like two weeks, man, you’ve gotta stop jumping every time the door opens,” Brent says from where he’s leaning against the counter, paging through a catalogue. “Lucky for you no one in Chicago has urgent need of a three hundred dollar fishing pole or they’d be totally put off by the disappointed face you make when they’re not _him.”_

“It’s only been ten days,” Jonny corrects, then frowns when Brent and Duncan burst into laughter.

“We need to get you laid,” Duncan says from his perch on Jonny’s counter, because he’s a disrespectful asshole who thinks it’s okay to sit on people’s display cases. “Like, immediately.”

“I get laid plenty,” Jonny lies, setting off another round of laughter.

“You’re being ridiculous,” Brent snorts when he’s stopped chuckling. “You’ve rejected every guy I’ve sent your way for months.” He pauses and looks at Jonny with a grimace. “Duncs isn’t wrong, though, because that face? Is not a good look on you. And if you’re not gonna ask _him_ out — whoever this mysterious him is — you need to get laid by someone else, because you’re turning into a miserable bastard.”

“I’m not— I don’t— Why don’t you two just leave, I’m very busy.” Jonny sifts some brochures stacked on the counter around, ignoring the way Brent rolls his eyes.

“Seabs is right,” Artemi says as he comes out of the storeroom. “Now always with faces like this,” he frowns, then glares, then sniffles and pouts.

“You’re fired,” Jonny frowns but Artemi just laughs and points at his face. 

“See? This is face!”

“I like him,” Duncan says with a grin offering a fistbump before Artemi goes back to the storeroom to finish pulling the latest order together.

“You’re all fired,” Jonny sulks. “Now get out.”

“We don’t work here,” Brent counters, but he and Duncan leave soon after, still chirping Jonny about needing to get laid.

They’re not wrong, but Jonny just can’t work up any interest in picking up. When a guy approaches him at his favorite sports bar a few days later, Patrick’s on the television behind him, toying with the Wild like a cat plays with a mouse it’s cornered. Eventually the guy, like the other ones before him, melts away. Jonny doesn’t notice until the period ends, and he glances around to find Brent staring at him sadly.

So yeah, maybe Jonny needs to get laid, but he has a sinking feeling that there’s only one guy he wants for the job.

***

It’s a repeat of their first encounter when the bell above the door chimes and Jonny calls out from where he’s crouched behind the counter. “Be right with you!”

“No problem,” a man replies, sounding remarkably like Patrick. Jonny stands up so quickly he bangs his head on the lip of the countertop.

“Hi,” Jonny says lamely, rubbing at his head.

“Hi,” Patrick returns with a grin. “You okay there?”

“Yeah,” Jonny says, tamping down on the grin threatening to split his face at seeing Patrick again. “Pretty hard-headed.

“I can buy that.” Patrick looks around the completely empty shop. “Caught you in a rush, huh?”

“Well, I am kind of swamped with customers, got no time for you,” Jonny deadpans. 

“That’s quite a welcome—I’m shocked the store’s not packed. Got no time for me, huh?” 

“Nah, I’m just kidding,” Jonny says. “Any time’s a great time for you. I mean, not _you._ I mean any customer, really. Not you specifically.” Jonny snaps his mouth shut.

“Wow. Not me specifically, huh?” Kaner smirks.

“Shut up,” Jonny mumbles, cheeks flaming.

“Jonny! Is that how you speak to just _any customer?”_ Patrick gasps.

“No, I save that for my favorite assholes,” Jonny mutters. Patrick throws his head back and laughs, and Jonny has to look away from the long line of his throat. “Did you just come here to bust my balls, or did you want to get a coffee?”

“No time for coffee, but I decided I need some, of...” Patrick glances around the shop until his eyes land on a display of lures. “Of those.” 

“You need some artificial lures.” Jonny eyeballs Patrick doubtfully. “Those are for deep sea fishing.”

“Oh, is that what those are for? I definitely need some of those, then.”

“Do you even own a fishing rod?” Jonny knows he doesn’t, after all their discussions, and he can’t figure out why Patrick’s decided to buy something. 

“No. No, I do not.” Patrick folds his arms with an arched brow. “You got a problem with that?”

“Nope,” Jonny replies, putting up his hands. “There’s a lot that goes into buying the right lure,” he warns as they walk over to the display.

“Oh, I’m sure,” Patrick says, waving his arm grandly. “Impress me.”

So Jonny does. He ends up explaining the manufactured lures in the display Patrick had initially pointed to and then some of the one’s Jonny ties himself. He’s explaining how he always tries to use locally sourced and ecologically sound materials in his jigs when he catches Patrick staring at him, a fond grin on his face. “Sorry,” Jonny says sheepishly. “Am I rambling?”

“Yes, but I’m enjoying it,” Patrick says easily. “You’re cute when you’re passionate about something. You get this intense, determined look, and it’s totally doing it for me, I gotta tell you.”

“I— what?” Jonny’s cheeks flame. 

“And I was wondering if you’d like to go out with me?”

“You— what?”

“Do you want to go with me? Tonight?” Patrick asks again, looking a little nervous now, as though there’s any chance Jonny would turn down a date with him. “I know it’s late notice, but I don’t have a game until Friday and Q just gave us tomorrow off.” He blinks up at Jonny. “So I don’t even have curfew tonight.”

“I— I’d like that,” somehow Jonny manages to reply without choking on his tongue. “How about seven?”

“Sure,” Patrick agrees. They agree to meet in the lobby of Patrick’s apartment building, Jonny razzing Patrick for his fancy loop address and Patrick chirping back that people in glass fishing stores shouldn’t be casting real estate stones.

“Get it, Jonny? You’re _casting_ stones because you’re a fisherman.”

Jonny groans into his hands, making Patrick laugh and when he leaves, there’s a long moment at the door where Jonny thinks he might be lingering for a kiss. 

“I’m really looking forward to tonight.” Patrick says finally, brushing a hand over Jonny’s. “See you at seven.”

Jonny’s in a daze once Patrick leaves, and it takes an hour before his brain clears enough to remember that he’s already got plans for the evening. He spends a long time cursing his luck before he finally types out a text to Patrick.

_”I just realized I’m supposed to go to a birthday party tonight,”_ Jonny sends.

_”Oh, that’s fine, I understand, we can do it another night,”_ Patrick replies a few minutes later. 

Jonny chews on his nail for a long moment before making a decision. _”Or you could come with me?”_ and _”If you want, I mean.”_

Patrick’s reply takes a little longer. _”I’d love to meet your friends.”_

_”Yeah, don’t be too sure about that, they’re all assholes,”_ Jonny responds.

_”Well they’re your friends, so I kind of figured,”_ Patrick texts back with a wink emoji.

_”I take it back, you’re going to fit right in.”_

***

Patrick’s standing outside when Jonny walks up, blowing on his hands in the cold. The party’s at Harry Carey’s a couple of blocks away, and Patrick’s unusually quiet as they start walking.

“What’s up?” Jonny asks the second time Patrick doesn’t respond to something he says. “Is everything okay?” He has an unpleasant thought. “You’re not having second thoughts, are you?”

“No, no, it’s just,” Patrick huffs, then grabs Jonny’s arm and pulls him into the doorway of a closed store. “So, you know I’m not— I’m not out, right?”

“Well,” Jonny tilts his head. “I know you’re not publicly open about it, but I live in Chicago. I go out. You’re kind of not… discreet. Like. At all.”

“Oh,” Patrick flushes. “Well, yeah, but. I’m not _out_ out, right?”

“Sure, yeah, I get it,” Jonny says even though he really doesn’t, not in this day and age of cellphone pics and twitter.

“If this is a date, how are you gonna introduce me to your friends?”

“Oh.” Jonny hadn’t even thought about that. He hasn’t really dated any closeted guys, and he’s been out for so long, it just never comes up. “Um. How do you want me to introduce you?”

“I want this to be a date,” Patrick says, squeezing Jonny’s arm. “But I can’t afford to be outed by anyone.”

“Okay, that’s, that’s fine,” Jonny says. “We’ll just say we’re friends.”

“We could,” Patrick says, biting his lip. “Or I could hand out some non-disclosure agreements my agent gave me.”

Jonny’s eyebrows go up. “You told your agent we had a date?”

“Uh. Yeah?” Patrick cringes a little. “I’m sorry, my life the past year or so has been a little nuts. I’m supposed to clear this kind of thing with him, and he just thinks it’s safer for me this way.”

Jonny hates the way Patrick looks, guilty and miserable. “Then my friends can sign them. Give me one, I’ll sign it now,” Jonny says, and Patrick shakes his head, looking up at Jonny earnestly. 

“Oh, I’m not asking you to sign one, Jonny. I trust you. But — no offense, but I don’t know your friends. If you don’t mind asking them to sign, this can be, you know. A proper date.”

“Well, I’d really like it to be a proper date,” Jonny says. “So, yes, absolutely.”

“Good, I’m so — I’m really glad,” Patrick replies, the tension he’d been carrying himself with draining away. 

“Me, too. Now let’s go, I’m starving,” Jonny says, pulling Patrick back out to the sidewalk. They bump shoulders on the way, and Patrick says hi to the maître d' once they’re inside. Brent waves them over and then peers around Jonny trying to get a look at Patrick.

“Did you actually get that guy to go on a date?” Brent asks, feigning shock, when Jonny walks into the small room at the back of Harry Carey’s Steakhouse where Dayna’s party is being held, Patrick a few steps behind him. “Or did you have to hire an escort?” 

“Funny,” Jonny’s turning to Patrick to introduce him when Brent gasps, eyes wide.

“ _Patrick Kane?_ ” He looks at Jonny in shock. “Jonny, this is Patrick Kane. _The_ Patrick Kane!”

“I’m aware,” Jonny says dryly. “You said I could bring a date.”

“This isn’t a date, Jonny!” Brent flails. “This is— he’s— you’re Patrick Kane!”

“That’s me,” Patrick agrees with a smirk.

Brent gapes at him and then looks at Jonny accusingly. “How do you know Patrick Kane?”

“From the shop?” Jonny says sheepishly. “This is the guy I told you about.”

“This is — How the fuck did you get Patrick Kane to go out with you?“ 

“Hey now, he asked me!” Jonny says, a little offended. “Kaner, this idiot is Brent, and he’s a complete embarrassment, so I apologize in advance.” Jonny scratches his head. “Also he’s a liar, so don’t listen to anything he says about me. Or you. Or anything, really.”

“Sure, sure,” Patrick laughs. “So, Brent, are you the birthday boy?”

“Yes! I mean, no — I’m the birthday boy’s husband. Birthday girl’s husband. It’s my wife’s birthday.” Brent stutters, making Jonny and Patrick laugh again. “I’m Brent, call me Seabs.” He takes Patrick’s hand and shakes it violently enough that Patrick tips sideways into Jonny, and Jonny pulls him under his arm to steady him, keeping him there even after Brent lets go. 

“Pat Kane, but you can just call me Kaner.”

“Kaner?” Brent says, still gawping a little. “I— sure, yeah.” 

Jonny clears his throat to hide a laugh. “So, Brent’s a big Hawks fan, you’re his favorite player, he can’t believe he’s meeting you, would you sign something for him, can he get a picture with you, and uh… am I missing anything?” Jonny looks down at Patrick, still tucked against his side.

“Hmm,” Patrick puts a finger to his jaw and taps it contemplatively. “Oh, maybe: _And please win another cup for us!” _Patrick laughs when Brent just nods dumbly. “Don’t worry, I’m working on it. And I’m happy to sign something or take a photo, but first I’d really love a beer.”__

__Brent seems to snap out of it then, although he hovers as they get their drinks until Dayna beckons him away. Jonny spends the next hour introducing Patrick to his friends, who all have much the same response Brent had, except for Duncan. He stares at Patrick for a long moment, grunts, and then asks him if he wants the fish or the chicken. “Seabs ordered too much of the chicken, so it’d be great if you picked the chicken instead of the fish.”_ _

__“I’ll… have the chicken?” Patrick says._ _

__“Good man,” Duncan nods curtly, and walks away._ _

__“He’s... different,” Patrick says, side-eying Jonny._ _

__“You have no idea,” Jonny responds fervently. “I’ve known him for years and I can’t even begin to explain him, so don’t ask.”_ _

__The evening’s wonderful, everyone laughing and happy, and once everyone gets over the awkwardness of the nondisclosure agreements, Jonny’s friends seem to mostly forget that Patrick’s an NHL player. They treat Patrick like any of Jonny’s previous dates, questioning his taste and his mental status, all while subtly threatening him if he hurts Jonny._ _

__Patrick takes it all in stride._ _

__When they’ve said their goodbyes a few hours later, Patrick proposes they walk along the river, even though the temperature’s barely above freezing._ _

__When Jonny complains about the cold, Patrick laughs. “It’s not that bad, man, it’s only like thirty-three degrees! Thought they made Canadians hardier than that.”_ _

__“It’s like _one_ degree,” Jonny insists, just to get a reaction out of Patrick._ _

__“You’re in America now, bud. We’re not all about that weird metric bullshit,” Patrick scoffs._ _

__“The metric system isn’t bullshit, it’s actually a lot more logical than a system based on the length of some random king’s arm back in the middle ages.” Jonny replies archly. “Leave it to American’s to dig their heels in and refuse to change with the times.”_ _

__“Leave it to Canadians to refuse to assimilate,” Patrick says archly, bumping Jonny’s shoulder to show he’s just teasing._ _

__“Whatever,” Jonny huffs, but he pulls on Patrick’s arm to bring him closer, and Patrick smiles up at him, dimples flashing._ _

__They walk in silence for a minute before Patrick says, “You never finished telling me how you ended up selling fishing poles in the heart of Chicago.”_ _

__So Jonny tells Patrick about his family’s cabin on Lake of the Woods in Manitoba, spending every summer fishing. “I started tying my own lures in high school, and then in university kept it up just to give myself a break from studying. I must have made a hundred my freshman year, and they were so popular with my friends at the lake that summer that I started selling them online. I refined things until I came up with the Tickler. By the end of university, I couldn’t keep up with demand and we started looking for someone to buy the patent.”_ _

__“The Tickler,” Patrick snickers, and Jonny bumps him off the sidewalk in retaliation. “But none of that explains moving to Chicago.”_ _

__“Brent got a job offer in Chicago out of university. He was handling a lot of the more complicated business stuff for me, and the royalties were a lot more than I’d expected them to be. I figured since I could do my work anywhere, and I just figured I’d move here, too.”_ _

__“You moved to be near your accountant?” Patrick asks doubtfully._ _

__“Well, he’s my best friend, too, but…” Jonny sighs. “There might have been a bad relationship in Winnipeg that I wanted to put behind me, too.”_ _

__“Now that makes more sense,” Patrick says sympathetically._ _

__“Anyway, I moved here, and I’d always wanted a little storefront, something I could work in and send out orders from. The royalties gave me a lot of flexibility to that. So I moved here, opened the shop, and two years later, here we are.”_ _

__“I’m surprised you can afford that space,” Patrick says admiringly. “Chicago real estate isn’t cheap. Either that or you’re making a shit-ton more on those royalties than I would’ve guessed.”_ _

__“I do okay, but no,” Jonny snorts. “I live in the apartment above the shop. And Duncs owns the building, so he gives me a pretty sweet deal that helps keep the rent down.”_ _

__“Duncs?” Patrick says, shocked. “Weird-about-chicken Duncs?”_ _

__“Yep,” Jonny laughs. “He’s actually a Mercantile Exchange trader who made an absolute killing a few years ago. Bought a bunch of properties for investment purposes. He and Brent grew up together—they’re like brothers— and we’ve gotten to be pretty close, too. When he found out I wanted to open the store, he offered to rent to me. I handle all the property management for the other tenants in the building in exchange for reasonable rent.”_ _

__“Huh,” Patrick says. “I did not put Duncs down as a real estate mogul.”_ _

__They’ve reached Navy Pier and the wind off Lake Michigan has picked up considerably but it’s still not unpleasantly cold._ _

__“You want to head back?” Jonny asks, but Patrick shakes his head, so they continue onto the pier, walking mostly in silence for a few minutes. The area beyond the pier is shrouded in darkness, a few stars visible, dotted here and there with lights from passing cargo ships._ _

__“It’s so beautiful out here,” Jonny says when they reach the end of the pier, and he turns around to look at the skyline. Patrick’s standing at the rail, looking at the lake, but he turns a little to look up at Jonny. “Sure is,” he says after a long, charged moment, eyes roaming over Jonny’s face. “Definitely enjoying the view right now.”_ _

__“Kaner,” Jonny says, his voice dropping an octave, and Patrick licks his lips, drawing Jonny’s eyes to the pink, wet flesh._ _

__“Yeah?” Patrick says, then leans forward until their mouths meet. He kisses Jonny gently, his lips cold, a stark contrast to the warmth of Patrick’s tongue when he licks across the seam of Jonny’s mouth. Jonny’s lips part with a small gasp, and then Patrick’s tongue is inside, hot and wet as it dances and twists with his own, making Jonny groan and pull him closer._ _

__“Shit, Jonny,” Patrick pants long minutes later, pulling back a few inches to catch his breath. His cheeks are pink and his lips red and swollen, and Jonny swallows, a pang of desire rippling through his body. When Patrick tongues his lower lip, Jonny growls a little and pulls Patrick back in, taking his mouth fiercely before kissing down Patrick’s neck, nipping at his chiseled jawline and biting his earlobe a little, then harder when it makes Patrick’s hips hitch into his._ _

__“Come back to mine,” Patrick says breathlessly, and Jonny nods dumbly, tucking Patrick under his arm as they make their way back. Patrick moves away from Jonny when they spot someone walking towards them. “Sorry, I’m not—“_ _

__“Don’t worry about it,” is all Jonny says, bumping his shoulder._ _

__The door to Patrick’s apartment is barely closed before Patrick’s got Jonny pressed against it, licking into his mouth again. They make out for a few frenzied minutes before Patrick steps back. “Not here, come on,” he says, dropping his coat on the floor and kicking off his shoes, then walking farther into the apartment._ _

__Jonny does the same and follows him into a living room with a sweeping view of downtown. He stops, a little stunned, before Patrick makes a noise and drags him to the couch._ _

__“This is place is gorgeous,” Jonny says as he sits down but then he has a lap full of Patrick Kane, so he shuts up and lets himself get kissed within an inch of his life. They kiss so long that his lips are buzzing and he’s panting, his cock starting to press uncomfortably against his zipper when Patrick pulls back to suck and bite at his neck._ _

__“Kaner,” Jonny gasps, aching and hard and unwilling to come in his pants like a teenager when there’s probably a bed somewhere nearby. “Let’s—ahhhh, God, yes, do that again—can we go to your bed?”_ _

__“Yes—“ Patrick’s saying when the sound of the front door opening reaches both their ears. They both look toward the door and then Patrick stiffens and sits back, his face white._ _

__“Who is it?” Jonny asks, rubbing a hand up Patrick’s thigh comfortingly. “Kaner?”_ _

__“Oh, fuck, oh fuck, she’s supposed to be in LA,” Patrick says. He looks down at Jonny, stricken. “Jonny, I’m sorry, I—“_ _

__“Pat?” A woman calls. “Shoot got done early, so I caught an early flight. You still up?” She comes around the corner and stops short, looking between Patrick and Jonny in shock._ _

__“Liv—“_ _

__“What—what’s going on here?” the woman says, blinking at them when Patrick doesn’t respond. “Patrick. Who is this?”_ _

__“It’s not what it looks like!“ Patrick stutters, looking down at Jonny wild-eyed before scrambling off his lap. “Liv, I’m sorry, please don’t be mad—“_ _

__“Don’t be mad?” The woman, Patrick’s— wife? girlfriend?— scoffs. “You agreed to keep your hookups quiet and and your groupies somewhere I don’t have to see them.” She eyes Jonny. “Maybe I should just pack my shit—”_ _

__“No!” Patrick protests. “No, please don’t leave! I can’t— I can’t do this without you! ” Patrick steps closer, grabbing her hand, and Jonny can see her softening in the face of Patrick’s pleading and the gutted, frantic look on his face. “I can’t lose you now. Please. It’ll ruin _everything_. Please. Don’t go. Please.”_ _

__Jonny has to look away, disgust warring with an aching hole in his chest at Patrick’s words. He stands up then, drawing their attention back to him._ _

__“I don’t know who you think you are, Kaner, but I’m no fucking groupie,” Jonny says, quiet and sharp in contrast to the loud words Patrick and Liv have been exchanging. “Oh, and also? Fuck. You.”_ _

__“Jonny, I—“ Patrick says finally but that’s all, and Jonny scoffs in disgust at him._ _

__“You need to leave,” the woman says. “Right now.”_ _

__“Oh, I’m going,” Jonny says. Anger fuels him as he makes his way to the front door, grabbing his coat and shoving his feet into shoes._ _

__“Jonny,” Patrick says as he follows him, wringing his hands but not saying anything. He looks wild, face pale, eyes red, like he’s coming apart at the seams. He looks nothing like the man Jonny’s been with all night. “Jonny,” he says finally, when Jonny gets the door open. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—“ He swallows loudly, throat bobbing. “I didn’t know she was coming home tonight.”_ _

__“Oh, hey, that makes it so much better,” Jonny sneers at him. “Just, don’t bother, just— go back to your, your— _her._ And leave me the fuck out of it.”_ _

__“Please, Jonny— I’ll call you tomorrow, explain all of this, I promise. It’s not what you think. I’m so sorry. I just have to talk to Liv first, then I can make you understand—“_ _

__“You’re out of your fucking mind!” Jonny explodes loudly, ignoring Patrick’s flinch. “I’m leaving. If she’s dumb enough to forgive you, good luck to her. I know I wouldn’t.”_ _

__“Jonny—“ Patrick whispers brokenly. “I really can explain this, if you’ll just let me.”_ _

__“Lose my number, asshole,” Jonny says. “I’m sorry you ever came into my store.”_ _

__The door shuts behind him, Patrick still standing there, blue eyes distraught and shining. Somehow Jonny makes it into the elevator, which is blessedly empty, and out into the cold night air. He can feel nausea building up, though, and he finds himself emptying his dinner into a garbage can a few steps from the entrance. He coughs a little, eyes burning as he wipes at his mouth, the bile in his throat barely subsiding even though he’s got nothing more to throw up. When he’s sure he’s not going to be sick again, he buttons his coat and starts walking down State toward his apartment. It’s a solid fifteen block walk, and his mouth tastes gross, but he doesn’t slow until he’s inside._ _

__He doesn’t remember a minute of the trip._ _

__His phone vibrates in his pocket multiple times before he’s in his front door, but he ignores the calls. He grabs the largest bottle of liquor he has and takes a long swig before taking his phone out. There are three calls and six texts from Patrick, apologizing and begging Jonny to let him explain. He deletes the voicemails and then navigates to Patrick’s contact info and hovers over the “Block this Caller” feature for a few seconds before tightening his jaw and pressing it, then erases the contact and all the messages._ _

__The texts and calls stop after that, but nothing can stop Jonny from thinking about the scene in Patrick’s apartment, or how right Patrick had felt in his arms before it’d all gone to hell. He grabs his vodka and drops down on his couch and sighs, long and loud, with a disturbing hitch at the end that he’ll deny forever is a sob. He turns on the golf channel, more for noise than anything, and determinedly tries to push all thoughts of Patrick out of his head._ _

__It doesn’t work._ _


	2. The trace of pleasure or regret

Jonny does his best to ignore Patrick’s existence, but of course there’s no block button in real life. It takes almost a week, but Brent and Artemi finally stop asking him what happened, even though they still send concerned looks his way. 

It’s just his luck that two weeks later the Hawks start gearing up for a playoff run. Banners with Patrick’s likeness go up all over the city, grinning around his trademark white mouthguard. It’s an agonizing reminder that he never should’ve let himself get in so far with a guy so out of his league.

They only went on one date, he tells himself over and over, and he has no excuse to be this gutted. Jonny’s not naive, he went to school with junior hockey players, he knows most hockey players —hell, most guys— can and do stick their dicks into anything and anyone who’s willing, but he’d thought Patrick was different. He’d thought what Patrick’d wanted from Jonny was different

The weather warms up as spring settles in for real, and even though Patrick’s face is everywhere, it’s somehow worse when Jonny’s home in his apartment, unable to stop himself from thinking about how Patrick’s face had lit up as he’d talked about his sisters, or the mischievous look in his eyes when he’d chirped Jonny about the Jets.

As April turns to May things ease a little. He realizes one day that he isn’t thinking about Patrick as soon as he wakes up anymore, and he’s able to think about him without wanting to put his fist through a wall—or go back his apartment and kiss him until he leaves his stupid girlfriend for Jonny. He knows he’s not over Patrick, not by any stretch, but at least he’s finally sleeping a little bit better.

Someone leaves a Sun-Times on the counter and Jonny’s can’t help reading the story about the Hawks crapping out of the playoffs in the first round again, as well as a column debating whether Patrick should be traded. He mostly avoids looking at the photo of a dejected Patrick underneath the headline, “Patrick Kane: Elite Talent or Flash in the Pan?” He’s almost glad to read how Patrick’s point production plummeted after mid-March, probably a coincidental timing with the scene with Liv, and then feels a little guilty for hoping it’s in some small part due to what happened between them.

It’s mid-May when there’s a persistent knocking on the shop door late one night as he’s doing inventory, and even though they’ve been closed for an hour, something makes Jonny go to the front, despite his instinct to ignore whoever it is. 

“Sorry, we’re closed,” Jonny says even before he can make out who’s standing outside.

It’s Patrick. He’s wearing a hoodie, but it doesn’t hide that his hair is shorn close to his scalp, practically a buzz cut. He’s got sunglasses on even though it’s after nine, and an overnight bag on one shoulder. He looks like small and lost, and Jonny has to tamp down on his instinctual concern.

“What do you want?” Jonny asks instead of walking away door like he should.

“Please,” Patrick says, his hands unsteady as he pulls his glasses off. “Can I just— can I come in? I know you’re still furious with me, and I— I deserve it, but. Can I come in, just for a little while? Please?”

Either Jonny’s a sucker or the beer he’d been drinking while cataloguing stock loosened his self-preservation instincts because he finds himself unlocking the door. Despite his anger, he’s concerned as he gets a closer look at how frail Patrick seems, like he’s going to collapse any second. Once he’s inside, his eyes dart around the shop as though someone’s going to pop out from behind the display of artificial worms.

“I’m sorry, Jonny,“ Patrick says, his voice shaking. “I know you hate me but I didn’t know who else to call.” He’s hugging himself, and even though it’s a warm night, he’s bundled in a hoodie. Despite the heavy fabric, he’s shivering, and Jonny sighs.

“Come on upstairs before you collapse. I’ll make you some tea,” he says, leading Patrick through the shop and up to his apartment. He waves Patrick over to his couch while he grabs the soothing tea his mother left in his apartment a few visits ago and makes them both a mug. Patrick’s right where he left him, his hands in his lap and his leg bouncing nervously.

“Thanks,” Patrick says, almost inaudible. He sips at the tea for a minute, cupping the mug in both hands. They’re not shaking anymore, but Jonny can see that Patrick’s nails are bitten to the quick and look like they’ve even been bleeding in some spots. He looks small, cowed and unsure of himself, and Jonny’s at a loss as to why. 

“You look like shit,” Jonny says frankly, frowning when Patrick cringes. “Is this about the playoffs?”

“No,” Patrick says, making a face. “I mean, yeah, that sucked, but…”

When he doesn’t go on, Jonny makes an impatient noise. “So? What the fuck happened?”

“I fucked up,” Patrick says finally, eyes darting up to meet Jonny’s and away again as quickly.

“What did you do?” Jonny honestly can’t think of anything that would turn confident, outgoing Patrick into this shrinking, sad version in front of him.

“Don’t you read the news? I’m all over it,” Patrick says bitterly.

“The trade rumors, you mean?” 

“Yes and no,” Patrick sighs. “I don’t want to talk about it. I just— I need a place to crash for tonight. Can I— can I stay here? Please?”

“Stay here?” Jonny says skeptically. “Patrick, I don’t— that doesn’t sound like a good idea.”

“I just need a place to crash for one night. Please?”

“Why don’t you go home to your fancy apartment? Isn’t your girlfriend home?” Jonny mostly manages not to sneer. “Or go back to Buffalo, stay with your family?”

“I broke up with Liv,” Patrick says and when Jonny makes a scoffing sound, he goes on quickly, “I swear, Jonny! And my family doesn’t want me around. My mom can’t stop yelling at me, my dad’s giving me the _“I’m so disappointed in you”_ stink-eye, and my sisters… God. I’m not sure when they’re going to talk to me again.”

“What the hell did you do?” Jonny asks, bewildered at what Patrick could possibly do that would turn his family against him. It’s obviously something a lot worse than only scoring one goal in the playoffs. Patrick pulls his lips over his teeth and shakes his head, eyes shining, and Jonny makes an impatient noise. “Fine don’t tell me, but you’re not staying here. With or without a girlfriend, you still have a place to sleep that’s only about fifteen blocks from here.”

“Please, Jonny?’ Patrick suddenly looks about three seconds away from falling apart. “I promise I won’t be any trouble. I just can’t go home tonight, face the cameras outside my apartment. I need— I need—“ He brushes a hand at the moisture under his eyes. “I just need a place to sleep. I feel like I haven’t slept in so long.”

Jonny sighs. Patrick looks completely exhausted, worn thin at the edges. He’s pale and even though he’s no longer shaking, he still looks too frail and more than a little shocky. “Fine. But just one night, and you’re sleeping on the couch.” 

“Thank you,” Patrick says earnestly, his features relaxing a little into something slightly less miserable. “God, you have no idea— you’re saving my life, honestly. Thank you.”

“Stop thanking me,” Jonny says, uncomfortable. He focuses on something concrete to distract himself from the urge to let Patrick under his defenses again “When’s the last time you ate?”

“I don’t remember?” Patrick shrugs. “Haven’t really been hungry.”

“You’re eating, and then you’re going to rest,” Jonny orders. “And tomorrow you’re gonna tell me what the hell you did.”

“Okay,” Patrick acquiesces easily enough now that Jonny’s given in to him staying.

Once Jonny’s gotten Patrick a sandwich, he goes to find sheets and something for Patrick to sleep in. Patrick’s looking around when he comes back, his sandwich half eaten. His color looks better, and he looks a little less like he’s going to collapse. Jonny ignores the surge of relief at seeing him a little more like his usual self.

“This place is nice. Homey,” Patrick says earnestly. “You’ve got good taste.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not so sure about that, given my dating history,” Jonny says deceptively mildly and Patrick blanches.

“I’m sorry about the thing with Liv, Jonny, I meant to tell you—“ 

“I don’t want to hear it,” Jonny puts up his hand. “Just. Leave it.”

“But—“ 

“Just stop— I’m giving you somewhere to stay, the least you can do is respect my wishes on this.”

“Okay, okay,” Patrick agrees but he still looks unhappy. “But. It’s kinda wrapped up in why I can’t go home without getting jumped by paparazzi, so I hope you’ll give me a chance to explain all of this, and apologize properly.”

“Maybe,” Jonny huffs, because he does want to know why Patrick’s such a wreck, and how it has anything to do with him. “For now, let’s just get some sleep.”

Jonny directs Patrick to the bathroom, getting him a toothbrush and finding a pair of shorts for him to sleep in. When Jonny gets back into the living room after changing for bed, Patrick’s under the blankets, punching at a couch pillow. Jonny turns and grabs a pillow off his bed, returning quickly and throwing it at Patrick, who catches it with a soft thank you. 

“You got everything you need?” Jonny asks a little tersely, and Patrick nods.

“Yeah, I think so. Thanks again for this— you didn’t have to and I really appreciate it.”

“Stop thanking me,” Jonny says, annoyed at how seeing Patrick like this—bitter, defeated, small—is making him feel sorry for him. “I’m not — I’m not glad you came here, for fairly obvious reasons,” Jonny says, making Patrick’s mouth tic a little, “but I’m just— I don’t know. I’m glad you’re not alone, I guess. So, seriously, stop thanking me, okay?”

“Sure, Jon,” Patrick says, biting his lip like he has to physically stop himself from saying thanks again. “Sure.”

It takes Jonny a long time to fall asleep after he says good night to Patrick, and he doesn’t think he can blame it on the soft sounds coming from the television in the other room. He turns onto his side, punching his pillow into a more comfortable position and tries not to think about the way the earnestly pleading expression on Patrick’s face earlier mimics the way he’d looked when he’d begged Liv not to leave. His reluctant sympathy for how distraught Patrick seems is mixing up with the anger and resentment, the loss he still feels about how things went down that night. 

It’s not surprising that he sleeps poorly and has vivid dreams that leave him exhausted and cranky when he finally gets up. He passes Patrick sitting at the table reading one Jonny’s worn paperbacks and ignores his soft, “good morning” in favor of making a beeline for the coffee pot. The fact that there’s a full pot goes a long way toward improving his disposition toward Patrick. He finds the largest mug he owns and pours himself a huge cup, adding soy milk and sugar, then taking a long sip.

“God, I needed that,” he croaks. The coffee’s so good that he can’t help moaning deeply around his second swallow.

A choked noise from the kitchen table brings him out of his coffee stupor. “You okay?” Jonny blinks at him blearily.

Patrick’s bright pink, and his eyes drop to Jonny’s mouth before he looks away quickly. “Yeah, sure,” Patrick says. “Save some for me, though.”

“Get your own,” Jonny says, cradling his mug to his chest and making Patrick laugh. 

“I did,” Patrick says, holding up his own cup. “Been up for hours.”

They drink in silence until Jonny finishes his cup, and as his brain comes back online, so does his awkward and annoying worry about Patrick. He seems relaxed this morning, not as pinched and wan.

“So,” Jonny says once he’s poured a second cup. “How’d you sleep?“

“Better?” Patrick replies, then blows out a loud breath. “But not great.”

“Probably more comfortable in your own bed,” Jonny says pointedly.

“Jonny,” Patrick implores, biting his lip so hard it turns white. He’s sitting in front of the window, the sunlight streaming in accenting his pallor and the deep smudges under his eyes. “I know you’re really mad at me, but, I just. Can I stay?” When he looks back at Jonny, his jaw is shaking a little. “Just for a day or two, promise.”

“What happened to just staying for one night?” Jonny frowns.

“Please?” Patrick blinks at him, his eyes wide and pale blue, and it’s too early for Jonny to summon any kind of resistance to the look Patrick’s giving him. He sighs, irritably aware of how much he wants to give in. Stalling for more time, he pours himself another coffee and finally pins Patrick with a look. “Maybe,” he says, “ _after_ you tell me what happened. Start talking.”

Ten minutes later, he’s on his third cup and Patrick’s curled around a pillow on the couch, chewing on one of his nails. Three days of drunken debauchery at some random university resulted in photos of Patrick embarrassing himself and internet rumors that exceed even his past infamous indiscretions. Patrick fervently repudiates the worst of the rumors—and apparently even the legwork of police and usually hostile reporters have turned up nothing to substantiate them—but he can’t dispute the images of himself face-down on bar tops or stumbling drunk around Madison, Wisconsin.

“Two fives equals a ten? Really?” Jonny rolls his eyes.

“I didn’t make the fucking t-shirt! For the hundredth time, I never took Spanish, and I didn’t even really understand what it meant. I thought it was about Cinco de Mayo! Fuck,” Patrick swears. “Why won’t anyone believe me?”

“Because it’s pretty obvious that it refers to the girls in the photo on the back?” Jonny waves at the photo of Patrick slumped over a bar he’s pulled up on his phone. “Any idiot would know that’s what the shirt said.”

“Fuck,” Patrick moans, dropping his head into his hands. “Fuck, I didn’t— listen, I’m a dick, and an idiot, and obviously slow, but it didn’t mean that to me. Ugh.”

“Oh, poor you,” Jonny says, watching him for a moment, unimpressed. “You know, you don’t get to be an injured party in this. You wore the shirt, you have to face the fact that the impression you gave everyone was that you’re an A plus douchebag.” Jonny nudges his leg a little with a toe. “Which isn’t far from the truth, as far as I’ve seen.”

“Hey!” Patrick’s head comes up. “I’m not— I’m not a douchebag!” 

“Pretty sure bringing a, what did Liz call me? Oh, yeah. _A groupie._ Pretty sure fucking a _groupie_ in the apartment you share with your girlfriend is the height of douchebaggery.”

“I know, but. Will you let me explain? About Liv, and everything else? Please?”

Jonny sighs. He can’t deny that he’s wanted to know what exactly had gone down that night, so he nods and Patrick lets out a shuddering breath.

“So, remember when we talked about how I’m not _out_ out?”

“Yes,” Jonny says. “I remember everything about that night.”

“Right,” Patrick says looking guilty. “Well, there’s another reason I needed your friends to sign those non-disclosure agreements. I, uh, I kind of got into trouble a year ago with the team for some photos that someone took.”

“What kind of photos?” Jonny sighs. “Do I even want to know?”

“There, uh, there might have been a video of me giving a guy a blowjob. And a photo of me in bed the next morning, sleeping.” 

“That’s awful, Patrick,” Jonny says, honestly horrified for him. “And then what happened? He threatened to post it?”

“Yeah, kinda? He sent the footage to my agent and the team, and hinted that he was going to go public, so my agent paid him off—“

 

“You had to pay him off? Jesus, Kaner. That’s blackmail! You should’ve turned him in to the cops!”

“I couldn’t risk that, because I’m not out, and I’d already fucked up with the whole cabbie thing, and just. I thought it was better than the bad publicity.” Patrick sighs. “My agent thought so, too.”

“Well. That’s absolute bullshit, and I’m sorry it happened to you, but I really don’t get what this has to do with me,” Jonny says.

“Because when it happened, I got the ass chewing of my life from my mom and dad and from the team, and once we gave the guy some money in exchange for the footage and a non-disclosure agreement, my agent said I needed to find a serious girlfriend.” Patrick winces at the face Jonny makes. “I know.”

“That’s awful,” Jonny says flatly. “Especially for the potential girlfriend.”

“Especially because I might have let them think I’m a little more bi than I actually am.” Patrick mumbles.

“How bi are you?” Jonny asks a little more gently. Being closeted to the world would be hard enough, and it’s not something Jonny would ever choose, but he’s never been anything but open about his sexuality to his family.

“Not bi at all?” Patrick mumbles. “Not even a little bit.”

“Oh, Kaner,” Jonny says. “And your family doesn’t know?”

“I just couldn’t tell them. I don’t know.” Patrick shrugs. “Erica guessed, though. So now all my sisters know.”

“I’m glad,” Jonny says, and Patrick’s smiles wanly, gratefully. “But, what about Liv? If you’re gay, what is she? Just a total beard?“

“Yes?” Patrick winces when Jonny frowns. “I know, Jonny! I know! It’s dumb, but. I hadn’t really ever come out to anyone before, so I panicked and just said the first thing I could think of.” He chews on the edge of his thumb, nail already bitten to the quick. “And it’s the fucking Chicago Blackhawks staring at me from across a conference room after watching me and some rando in a homemade porno. Fucking John McDonogh and Bowman, even Mr. Wirtz and my dad, staring at me, and I just. I panicked, okay?”

“I guess I get it,” Jonny says doubtfully.

“It was just really fucking awful,” Patrick says, face twisted. “So, I just went along with it. But my agent knows, and he helped me find Liv.”

“Your agent found a fake girlfriend for you?” Jonny’s starting to really dislike whoever Patrick’s agent is.

“Yeah, one of his other clients, actually,” Patrick says. “And Liv has been awesome! We’re—we’re friends now. She mostly lives in LA, but she moved in with me about a year ago. Being seen with me was good publicity for her. She was trying to move from modeling to acting. And she never cared if I “cheated” on her,” Patrick makes air quotes with his fingers. “She just asked me to be discrete and told me never to bring anyone back to the apartment.”

“So when you brought me back that was the first time you got caught?”

“Jonny, that was the first time I brought anyone back,” Patrick says earnestly. “Ever.”

“Bullshit,” Jonny snorts.

“I’m serious,” Patrick says firmly. “Since the whole thing with the video went down, I haven’t hooked up with anyone. It was just too risky. I couldn’t trust _anyone._ Well. I didn’t trust anyone, until you.”

Jonny ignores the way Patrick’s confession makes his heart squeeze a little. “So why were you kissing me on Navy Pier where anyone could’ve seen us, if you’re so afraid of being outed?”

“I just, I didn’t care,” Patrick says fiercely. “You were different and really liked you, and I was tired of being alone. But I had no business asking you out, I had no business kissing you in public, and I never should’ve brought you home with me.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“No, that’s not— Fuck! I’m fucking this up. Just— I _wanted_ to bring you home with me, Jonny, and I wanted to go on a date with you, and I wanted to kiss you on Navy Pier, and I just, I didn’t _think_. And then Liv got home, and I was so afraid of losing everything! So I panicked, and suddenly I was saying all those things—even though I didn’t mean them, even though it wasn’t right—and just.” He deflates, as though drained by his outburst. “I can’t lose the Hawks, man. I can’t— I can’t lose the NHL.”

“Kaner,” Jonny sighs, unsure what to say in the face of Patrick’s misery. “All that doesn’t give you the right to treat me like you did.”

“I know that. I never should’ve put you in that position. Never should’ve done that to Liv, even if we weren’t together.” Patrick’s mouth tics a little. “What can I say? I’m a shitty human being.”

“That’s such an awful fucking excuse. You really feel sorry for yourself, huh?”

“I—“

“No, now you’re going to keep quiet and listen for a minute. This isn’t about how what happened made _you_ feel; it’s about how you made me feel. Like I wasn’t worthy of being considered, like I was something less than the so-important Patrick-fucking-Kane, NHL god. And now, instead of realizing how much you hurt me, you’re feeling sorry yourself? For how much hurting me hurt you? Grow the fuck up.”

“Jon—“

“Because I’ve been in the closet, too, Kaner, I get it. I know how terrifying it can be to have to balance being happy against how your friends and family might feel about you, how people you work with might treat you. And I know your shit’s on a bigger scale, but in the end, that’s all it is. Degrees. So, no, you don’t get to be shitty to someone because you’re afraid of being outed, no matter how much you have at stake. And you definitely don’t get to be the injured party here, or the one who got hurt. Because you had a choice in all of that. I was a fucking plot point in your little personal drama, and I didn’t deserve that. And I don’t deserve having to comfort you about how shitty you were to me.”

Patrick looks at Jonny for a long moment, mouth working wordlessly. “I— I’m so sorry, Jon.”

“I believe you,” Jonny says, and realizes it’s true. “I don’t really understand, and I definitely don’t like what you did, but I believe you’re sorry. So I accept your apology.”

“You do?” Patrick breathes. “Thank you, God, I don’t deserve it but thank you.”

Jonny chews on his lip for a second but he’s gotta know. “And you broke up with Liv?”

“Yeah, after the playoffs ended, we decided it wasn’t working any more. That I didn’t need a beard because I’d been out of the headlines for more than a year.” He laughs, sharp and bitter. “Guess we pulled that trigger a little too soon.”

“You think?” Jonny pushes his foot into Patrick’s side, making him wriggle away.

“And now I’m sleeping on your couch,” Patrick says, rubbing his side. “If that’s okay?”

Jonny snorts. “I have no idea why, but yes. You can stay here for a couple of days. Just think about what I said, and pull your head out of your ass.”

“Yeah,” Patrick says, voice wavering a little, like he’s going to start crying again, and Jonny’s done with personal drama for the day, so he stands up, clapping his hands loudly.

“Okay, so here’s what we’re going to do,” Jonny says. “I’m taking you fishing.”

“Fishing?” Patrick eyes him skeptically. “What? Why?”

“I think we could both use a little fresh air, and we need to go somewhere where your ugly mug isn’t going to attract attention. Last I checked, the fish don’t care that you’re averaging a point per game or won the Stanley Cup or made an ass of yourself at a bar. So I’m going to shower and then we’re going fishing.”

***

Now that they’ve talked about everything, the anger that had hung in the air between them has mostly drained away, and it’s still awkward at first, but soon enough, they’re bantering and joking with each other again. It’s a little less automatic, a little more stilted, but slowly Jonny can feel himself relaxing into their normal dynamic. The first few times Patrick chirps back at Jonny, he freezes, but when Jonny takes it in stride, he seems to loosen up, until they’re having a screaming match about whether the United States has a better development program than the Canadian junior hockey leagues.

“Oh, screw you,” Patrick says furiously, “Fucking Canadian homer. You don’t know what you’re talking _aboot_.”

“No one says _’aboot_ ,” Jonny groans. “It’s a-boat, if anything.”

Patrick doesn’t respond, but Jonny can see his shoulders out of the corner of his eye. Jonny glances over quickly and Patrick’s hunched in on himself, hands over his eyes. “Kaner? You okay?”

“I can’t, I can’t breathe,” Patrick gasps finally. “ _It’s a-boat?_ Oh my God, Jonny.”

“Shut up,” Jonny grumbles, but it just makes Patrick laugh harder.

“A-boat? Of course you’d think it was a-boat, you giant Canadian fishing parody of yourself!” Patrick dissolves into guffaws so big that he falls to one side, landing with his forehead on Jonny’s thigh. He slaps at the seat, rotating his head back and forth, and his short, dark blond hair looks so different than it did the last time Jonny’d touched it, when he’d run his hands over the curls on the back of his head. Jonny just avoids putting his hand over the vulnerable nape of Patrick’s neck before Patrick sits up, still giggling and wiping tears from his eyes. “A-boat.”

“Whatever,” Jonny grumps, but he’s starting to laugh, too, and every time they look at each other, it sets them off again. It gets so bad that Jonny has to pull the truck over for fear he’s going to have an accident. When they’ve finally managed to calm down, Patrick thumps him across the chest. 

“What?”

“Thanks, man,” Patrick says simply, his lips quirked. “For the laugh, for the place to stay, and for listening. You didn’t have to, and like. I really don’t know what I would’ve done if you—“

“Is this another apology?” Jonny interjects, glaring at Patrick, but it’s half-hearted. “Because fuck that, man, I told you—“

“No, no, this is just— this is just a simple thank you,” Patrick demurs, face earnest and clear of the earlier sadness and worry. Jonny searches his eyes for a long moment and then nods, once. 

“You’re welcome.” Jonny pauses. “And I meant it, before. I forgive you for all that shit. So let’s put it behind us, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Patrick says.

“Good,” Jonny says, pulling back onto the highway. Patrick flicks up the volume of the stereo and they spend the rest of the drive to the dry dock where Jonny keeps his smaller fishing boat arguing over the radio, the warmth between them palpable. It’s not quite normal, for them, but it’s easier, it’s better, and Jonny finds himself darting glances at Patrick, and then warming when he catches Patrick already looking at him.

They’re out on the lake within forty-five minutes of pulling into the landing spot, lines baited and in the water. Jonny asked if Patrick wanted a bobber to help him know when a fish is on, but he’d declined — _”I’m not a six year-old, Jon,”_ — so he sets Patrick up with a reel and a simple jig.

“So talk to me about fishing, Jon,” Patrick says, his tongue sticking out a little between his teeth after they’d been casting in silence for a few minutes. “Dazzle me.”

“Um,” Jonny pauses, unsure. “Oh, well, see this line?” He pulls out a little from his to show Patrick. “See how I can really launch the bait out there? Part of that’s technique and practice, but a lot of it is equipment.” At Patrick’s scoffing look, Jonny explains, “It’s just like hockey — you could play with wooden sticks, and be great. But when you play with composite sticks, you’re even better.”

“Even better than great, huh?” Patrick teases. “Do you think my hockey’s better than great, Jonny?”

 

“Stop fishing for compliments,” Jonny says, the tips of his ears heating up. 

“Punny,” Patrick quips.

“Anyway, the equipment matters, is what I’m saying. Braided line—like this—is heavier and easier to throw. It’s really important to fish on bigger bodies of water using braided line. I like Soft Sufix 832 braid with a four foot shank. I use either eight or ten pound heat tested fluorocarbon. It just gives me a better feel.” He casts out about thirty yards and Patrick whistles.

“That’s awesome but I’m so confused, dude,” Patrick laughs. “Are you even speaking English?”

“You asked!” Jonny protests, his face flushing.

“I did,” Patrick agrees, bumping his shoulder. “I guess I always thought fishing was just, you know, baiting a hook and dropping the line into the water.”

“Yeah, it’s a little more complicated than that,” Jonny says dryly. “And thank God or I wouldn’t have a career.”

“Vocation, more like it,” Patrick teases. “Now show me how you got the line out that far, because that was sick.”

They spend the morning helping Patrick learn how to cast. With his athleticism and soft hands, he’s soon throwing the line almost as far as Jonny. He’s good at sensing when he’s got a fish on, too, and when he finally pulls in a twenty-inch smallmouth bass, he celebrates like he just won another Cup. “Look at you, you beauty,” he croons to the slimy, grey-green fish gaping at him. “He’s so cute! Don’t you think he’s cute?” When Jonny snorts, he looks back at the fish. “Is he a keeper?”

“Technically,” Jonny says as he works the hook free from the fish’s mouth. “But we’re doing catch and release today.”

“Oh,” Patrick pouts but then brightens. “Can I hold him? Before you let him go, I mean?”

“He’s your catch, you get to release him.” Jonny hands off the fish, showing Patrick how to hook his fingers around the gills so the fish doesn’t wiggle away. He wipes off his hands and grabs his camera, clicking a quick shot. “I’ll send it to you, if you want?”

“Yeah, that’d be great,” Patrick agrees, leaning over the side of the boat and setting the fish into the water gently. “There you go, back to your family, Nemo.”

“Fish don’t have families, dumbass,” Jonny mocks with a tsk. “I worry for the American education system if the extent of your knowledge is from Disney movies.”

“Listen, I know they exclusively teach fishing and hockey in the Great White North, but in the United States, we buy our fish. From a grocery store,” Patrick retorts with a grin.

“Oh, wow, Kaner, really? Is that what you civilized folk call them? I always wondered!” Jonny makes a shocked face and Patrick laughs, pushing at his shoulder and making the boat rock a little. Patrick stumbles a step back, grabbing at Jonny’s arm to keep from overbalancing, and Jonny pulls him closer, close enough that he can see the moment when Patrick’s pupil’s widen and swallow up most of the blue. Jonny clears his throat and steps back. “Don’t fall in, idiot.”

“I— I won’t,” Patrick says, head down as he pulls at the strings of his lifevest. There’s a quiet moment and Jonny’s searching desperately for some way to break the silence when Patrick says, “Can’t believe you made me wear a life jacket, man. I’m not eleven! I know how to swim.”

“Hey, I’m not eleven either, and I’m wearing one,” Jonny responds mildly. “And it’s not because you can’t swim, it’s because the water here is about fourteen degrees—“

“How is it not frozen!” Patrick squeaks. “Holy shit!”

“Fourteen degrees _Celsius,_ Kaner, fourteen degrees Fahrenheit would make this place a skating rink. And none of the Great Lakes ever get that cold—seriously, did you even go to school at all? How does a guy who spends all his time on ice not understand how water freezing works?”

“Oh, fuck off,” Patrick retorts without heat. “Fine, then what’s the actual temperature? You know, in American?”

“In American? Wow,” Jonny says, laughing when Patrick flips him off. “It’s about fifty-five? Fifty-six? Somewhere in there.”

“That doesn’t sound that cold to me,” Patrick says, peering over the side and Jonny grabs the back of his shirt and hauls him back. “Hey!”

“It’s plenty cold, Kaner,” Jonny says sternly. Patrick scoffs and drops to his knees, pulling his sleeve up and dropping a hand into the water. Jonny keeps a hold of the back of his shirt just to make sure and nearly gets brained when Patrick lurches back suddenly. 

“Holy fuck! That’s fucking freezing!” Patrick shakes his hand. “It’s so cold, but it feels like it’s burning. Holy fuck.” 

“Give me that,” Jonny tuts, pulling Patrick’s hand between his, and chafing it. “Told you it was cold.” They both watch as Patrick’s hand is enveloped in Jonny’s larger hands.

“Thanks,” Patrick says finally. When Jonny looks up, his eyes are downcast, his lashes dark against his cheeks, and Jonny has to force himself to pull away and step back. He turns away as Patrick’s stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jacket.

The fish stop biting after that, and when Jonny checks the time, it’s after one. They navigate back to where his truck is parked, and get the boat loaded up. They’re on the road a few minutes later, Patrick complaining about how hungry he is the whole time.

“Feed me, Jon, I’m starving,” Patrick complains again once the boat is back in dry dock. He hugs his stomach dramatically. “I’m going to collapse!”

“Sorry, I forgot to pack us lunch,” Jonny says with regret. “And I don’t know if you want to go out somewhere people might recognize you.” 

“Good point,” Patrick says, slumping lower in his seat with a grimace. “Fuck. Just stop at a gas station or something, get me a candy bar, then.”

“Sorry,” Jonny says, feeling guilty for having reminded Patrick about the media attention on him lately.

He’s almost to the highway when he thinks of something. “I have an idea, if you’re up for it. I think I know somewhere we can go where no one will know you.”

“Really?” Patrick scrunches his nose up. “Because I’m pretty much never incognito anywhere near Chicago. Too many hockey fans. Which is usually cool, but...”

“It’s not near Chicago,” Jonny responds, pulling a U-turn and heading south. “And where we’re going there’s not a lot of hockey fans.”

It takes thirty minutes to get to the outskirts of Shipshewana, but it’s worth it when they pass their first horse-and-buggy and Patrick gapes. “Where the hell are you taking me? Back in time?”

“Amishland,” Jonny smirks.

“ _Amishland?_ What the hell is Amishland?”

“Well, technically, it’s Amish country, but my little cousins always call it Amishland,” Jonny shrugs. “Basically it’s this rural part of Indiana with a bunch of Amish farms and communities. And some of the best cooking you’ll ever taste.”

“Huh,” Patrick marvels as they pass a horse-drawn wagon stacked high with hay and five barefoot boys in black hats and suspenders who nod and wave. Patrick grins and waves back, rolling his window down to call out a hello to the men at the reins.

He’s still grinning when Jonny pulls into the Blue Gate parking lot a few minutes later. He hops down and looks around in wonder. There are hitching posts on one side and a couple of buggies attached to them, and Patrick walks over to the nearest horse, a large, dark bay animal with blinders on. The bay’s ears prick up when Patrick gets closer and Patrick starts speaking gently as he approaches until he’s got his hand over the horse’s nose. 

“You shouldn’t— “ Jonny starts to protest, worried Patrick’ll get bitten, but he’s stroking the horse’s forelock gently. He watches quietly until Patrick pats the horse on the side and turns back to him. “I’m starving and I have to pee. Feed me, Jonny.”

“Charming,” Jonny deadpans, but leads him inside to the restaurant.

“I used to hang out at a barn,” Patrick explains when Jonny asks him about it later. “Jess loved horses and competed, and we’d bounce between barns and rinks, to save my dad having to drive too much. Guess some of it stuck.”

“It’s great how close your family is,” Jonny says, then regrets it when Patrick winces.

“Usually, but now... “ Patrick sighs. “They’re so angry with me right now. And I don’t blame them, I acted like an ass.” He pauses and then doesn’t go on, picking at the tablecloth a little.

“But…” Jonny prompts.

“But I thought they knew me better than that!” Patrick explodes, words pouring out. “I would never do some of the things people said I did— I was drunk, sure, and I made a fool of myself, and I shouldn’t have worn that stupid t-shirt, but fuck, Jonny, how could anyone who knows me ever think I’m capable of, of, “ He stops, sniffling. “Shit, shit, get it together, Kane,” he mutters under his breath.

Jonny looks down, uncomfortable but unsure of how to comfort Patrick. “Kaner—“

“Patrick,” Patrick sniffs, looking up with red-rimmed eyes. “Could you— can you just call me Patrick? Or Pat?”

“Sure,” Jonny says gently. “Patrick, your family loves you, and I’m sure they don’t believe all of the things people are saying. Have you spoken to them recently?”

“No. I turned off my phone,” Patrick admits. “They made it pretty clear they didn’t want to hear from me, so.”

“I think you should turn it on and see if they’ve reached out to you. And if they haven’t, I think you should reach out to them. You’ve been hiding out with me for almost twenty-four hours, and I’m sure they’re worried about you.”

The waitress comes up then and Patrick lets Jonny order for them. Jonny gets the family style meal with fried chicken and roast beef, figuring they’re both hungry enough to eat several helpings. Jonny’s relieved when he turns back to Patrick to see him fiddling with his phone, typing something out before grinning a little to himself at the reply.

“You good?” Jonny asks when Patrick pockets the phone a few moments later.

“Yeah.” Patrick pauses, chewing the inside of his cheek. “Better, anyway.”

The food comes then and it’s a good excuse for them to turn away from more serious topics. Patrick applies himself to devouring the food, moaning around a bite. “Shit, this is good food,” he raves, mouth full. “These mashed potatoes are the best I’ve ever tasted.” He points his fork at Jonny with a glare. “Never tell my mother or my aunts I said that.”

Jonny laughs and spoons up a serving for himself, adding roast beef and diving in. He’s hungry, too, hungrier than he realized, and they settle into eating, mostly silent except for the occasional rave about the food.

“Did you leave room for pie?” The waitress asks as she’s clearing the table, and Patrick looks at Jonny, eyes begging. 

“I’m too full,” Jonny admits and Patrick whines. “But I think we’ll stop in the bakery and pick out a few things to go.”

“Good choice,” she smiles, putting the check down and smiling at both of them. “Have a blessed day.”

Patrick snatches up the check before Jonny can reach for it. “I’m buying, no arguments. And I’m paying for the pie.” He glares a little like Jonny’s going to give him trouble about, and Jonny raises his hands. “Fine by me. Let’s go pick out some pie, and then we’re going to Jo-Jo’s.”

“Jo-Jo’s?” Patrick asks, putting away his wallet after dropping a couple of twenties on the table. “Is that a bar or something?”

“Nope.” Jonny grins at him. “You’ll see.”

They spend thirty minutes in the bakery, Patrick oohing and aahing over cookies the size of his head, cinnamon rolls with what appears to be a pound of icing on top, and the twenty-plus choices of pies, before he finally settles on several slices. Jonny gets lemon meringue which makes Patrick gag at him until he realizes the topping is six inches high and then he’s adding a slice for himself.

In the end, the bill for the bakery is easily double the one for their dinner, and Patrick’s licking frosting off his fingers as they walk back to the car. Jonny doesn’t get in, just puts the bags from the bakery in the cooler in the back and pulls Patrick over to the mercantile barn. They walk past some tourists and two more buggies, and he has to steer Patrick around some manure in the middle of the street when he’s rubbernecking at an antique store.

The mercantile isn’t busy and they’re standing at the counter of Jo-Jo’s within a minute. Jonny orders two pretzels—a gluten-free one for himself and a regular one for Patrick, who protests that he can’t eat another bite, but then devours the sweet and salty treat while it’s still so hot that he complains about burning his tongue. Jonny munches on his own as they walk around the mercantile barn, enjoying the way they fall into step with each other so easily. Patrick insists on ducking into the large quilt store, speaking with a couple of the staff and leaving with a quilt that gets wrapped up before Jonny can see it.

“Let me guess,” Jonny smirks when he tries to look at it and Patrick pulls the bag away like he’s going to steal it from him. “You found the one quilt made in Blackhawk colors.”

“Wrong, smarty-pants,” Patrick says, sticking out his tongue. “Red, white and blue, baby.”

“Oh my God, of course you would,” Jonny laughs. “Come on, let’s go home.”

Patrick’s yawning before they get out of town, and he falls asleep as soon as they’re on the tollroad. Jonny tries not to spend the entire trip watching him, but when they hit Chicago traffic, the freeway slows to a standstill, he gets a chance to really study him.

Patrick still looks exhausted, dark purple shadows under his eyes and tiny lines around his mouth even while he’s sleeping. He’s thin and pale, and his hair is so cut so short, it shows the shape of his scalp. It makes Patrick look younger, even as it reveals to what extent Patrick’s starting to lose his hair, which makes Jonny grin. He’s seeing more forehead in his own mirror every year, too, and it’s nice to know he’s not alone.

Patrick wakes up about three blocks from Jonny’s apartment, yawning and rubbing at his eyes in a way that makes something twist deep in Jonny’s stomach. It stays like that, tight and warm, and it’s probably why Patrick catches Jonny watching him.

“What?” He scrubs a hand over his mouth. “Do I have something on my face?”

“No,” Jonny admits, putting the truck in park and looking over at Patrick. “Just looking at you.”

“Oh,” Patrick says, cheeks pink. “Like what you see?”

“I do,” Jonny admits, heart racing, and Patrick blinks at him, mouth opening and closing. 

“Oh,” Patrick says again. “Thanks?”

“You’re welcome, Patrick,” Jonny snorts. “Now let’s get inside. I think there’s some pie with my name on it in the back.”

The reminder of their bakery spoils lights up Patrick’s face, and he jumps down from the cab, grabbing the bags from the back and tripping up the stairs into Jonny’s apartment, chattering away about the food Jonny’s introduced him to today. He glances up at Patrick now and again as he’s getting the different slices of pie out, and every time he does, Patrick’s looking back.

***

Two slices of pie and half a cookie later, Patrick declares himself full and leans back on the couch. “You’re going to make me fat, man.”

“Eh, you could stand to put on a few pounds,” Jonny rejoins, poking at Patrick’s ribs where they’re showing through his shirt. “You’re skin and bones.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Patrick makes a face. “Hard to keep weight on during the season and especially during playoffs.”

“Well luckily for you the season’s over and we can fatten you up again.” Jonny grins around the last bite of pie on his fork. “You’re too little to be so little.”

Patrick flips him off without replying, standing to take their plates to the other room. When he returns, he’s tensed up again and he stands next to the couch without taking a seat, shifting from foot to foot. “What you said earlier, did you mean it?”

“What did I say?” Jonny’s mystified; they’d been having a nice afternoon and nothing they’d been talking about should have Patrick looking as uncomfortable as he does. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, not— I’m not upset, I’m just. Trying to decide if I can, you know. Take a risk?”

“A risk? I’m lost, man. What are you talking about?” Jonny frowns.

“This,” Patrick says, taking Jonny’s hand and pulling him up until they’re standing face to face, chests almost touching. Patrick lifts the hand holding Jonny’s up to his face, setting it over his jaw. He tilts his face into Jonny’s hand, and slides his own hand into Jonny’s hair, cupping the back of his head. “Can I— is this okay?”

And Jonny shouldn’t let this happen, he shouldn’t be open to letting Patrick into his head and heart again, but they’ve been flirting all day, and he’s weak for the way Patrick’s looking at him. So he lets his eyes slide shut and Patrick makes a noise before pulling him closer, close enough that Jonny can feel the heat of his breath across his face. “Jon…”

Jonny turns his face blindly to find Patrick’s mouth, exchanging gentle kisses at first but then pulling Patrick closer, wrapping his arms around him until they’re pressed together so tightly that he can feel how turned on Patrick is. He grinds his hips against Patrick’s, and Patrick moans into his mouth, deep and hoarse and something about that noise turns them both up to eleven.

Jonny grabs Patrick’s hand and pulls him down the hall, pushing him on the bed and climbing on top of him. Once he’s settled on Patrick’s hips, he grinds down again, Patrick’s cock hard under his ass, and smiles as Patrick groans. “Like that?” Jonny whispers, watching Patrick’s lashes flutter when he does it again. “Want to fuck me?”

“Oh my God, Jonny,” Patrick groans, breath catching. “Want to fuck you, want you to fuck me, want everything. Fuck.” Patrick presses a hand to Jonny’s cock. “Want to get my mouth on you.”

“Yeah,” Jonny moans, the sound cutting off as Patrick’s fingers play around the head of his cock. His jeans dull the sensation into a faint echo of how his cock will feel in Patrick’s hands and suddenly Jonny can’t get naked fast enough. He jumps up, making Patrick reach for him, but when he pulls his shirt over his head, Patrick gets with the program and starts stripping, too. 

Jonny pauses when he’s down to his boxer briefs, his clothes pooled around him. Patrick’s shimmying out of his own pants, revealing that he’s commando, and his cock springs free. It’s thick and cut and weeping a little, and Jonny drops to his knees to lick away the precum that smears across Patrick’s abs.

He sits back up and Patrick reaches for him, sliding his fingers under the waistband of Jonny’s briefs. He pulls down slowly, the material sliding along Jonny’s length, and then gasps when Jonny’s cock is fully revealed.

“You’re — “ Patrick swallows loudly, running a finger from Jonny’s navel down to the naked skin above his cock. “Are you shaved?”

“I wax it,” Jonny smirks. He leans down to whisper in Patrick’s ear. “I’d offer to do you but I kind of like the ginger thing you’re rocking down here.” He slides his fingers through the tight, coarse curls until he’s palming the base of Patrick’s cock. “And you’re a big boy, but if you were bare, you’d look even bigger.”

“That’s—oh, please, don’t stop,—are you trying to kill me?” Patrick’s hips jerk when Jonny slides a finger up to circle the head of his cock. “Jonny, please.”

“Yeah,” Jonny says into Patrick’s mouth, kissing his lips, then the cleft of his chin and down his body, stopping to lave a nipple with his tongue. It makes Patrick keen, and he grins around the nipple, taking it between his teeth and grinding down gently. Patrick jerks and gasps, writhing until Jonny pulls off. 

“Sensitive,” he breathes across the nipple. He’d linger there but he has other plans, so he continues lower, licking across Patrick’s taut abs and then down to the edge of the ginger hair. He buries his nose into the join of Patrick’s thigh and pelvis, and inhales deeply. “God you smell so good,” he says, looking up to see Patrick watching him, pupils blown and mouth open. His whole face is flushed, down to his neck, and the contrast between his pale body and red features makes something in Jonny preen with pride. He did that.

“Come on,” Patrick pants when Jonny’s looked for a long moment. “Suck me.”

Jonny doesn’t waste any more time, just lowers his mouth over Patrick’s cock, licking the head and pulling off, letting his teeth scrape along the head lightly. Patrick’s hips hitch again, and Jonny grabs his thighs, pressing down firmly so Patrick can’t buck up, grinning when the pressure makes Patrick’s cock jerk in his grasp.

He hollows his cheeks as he lowers his head again, descending over the hot, thick length of Patrick over and over until Patrick’s twitching in his grasp, thighs clenching and unclenching as he fights Jonny’s hold. 

He can feel Patrick’s balls drawing up tight against his chin and throat, and he takes Patrick’s cock deep into his mouth, not stopping until it’s in the back of his throat. He swallows, and Patrick gasps, pushing on his shoulder. “You’re going to make me come. Oh, oh, Jonny, Jonny!”

“Mmm hmm,” Jonny hums, wanting to see Patrick fall apart, and he’s rewarded as Patrick starts coming, his cock pulsing larger in Jonny’s mouth. Jonny has to pull back a little so he doesn’t choke, Patrick’s come flooding his mouth, salty and perfect on his tongue. By the time Patrick’s finished coming, he’s panting weakly, arm thrown over his face, his thighs twitching and trembling under Jonny. “Jesus,” Patrick croaks with a shiver. “You’re a fucking master class of cock sucking, Jonny.”

Jonny smirks and sits up, pulling on his cock absently as he runs his eyes over Patrick’s debauched body. He’s turned on but focusing on sucking Patrick off has pulled him back from the edge enough that he’s regained a little control.

Patrick cracks an eyelid and watches Jonny stroke himself for a moment. “Want some help with that?”

“Well,” Jonny says, knee-walking closer. “Were you serious about wanting to get fucked?”

Patrick’s cock twitches weakly. “God, yes, but you just sucked my brains out — not going to be ready to go for awhile.”

“Ever been fucked after you come?” Jonny asks, laying down over Patrick, grinding his cock into the hollow of his hip. Patrick flinches a little when their cocks brush together. “It’s so intense, it’s like… like you don’t know whether you want more or want it to stop, whether you’re going to come or cry, and when you come the second time, it’s unreal.”

“I—“ Patrick licks his lips a little nervously. “Yeah, that sounds… I might be up for that.”

“Mmmhmm,” Jonny smiles, and rolls back a little so he can reach his nightstand to grab lube and a condom. “Let me show you.” They exchange long, wet, deep kisses for a while, the lube lying forgotten between them until Patrick grabs it and pushes it into Jonny’s hands. Jonny grins into his mouth and pulls back. “Eager, huh?”

“Yes, God. Fuck me, come on,” Patrick says, blushing, and it’s basically the hottest thing Jonny’s ever heard.

Jonny’s torn between watching himself open Patrick up and kissing him senseless, but he decides he can’t give up Patrick’s mouth, so he maneuvers him until he’s on his side, Jonny spooned up behind. He pulls Patrick’s knee up and drapes one of his legs over his own, opening him up to Jonny’s fingers, now slick with lube.

He trails the back of his hand down Patrick’s side, careful not to tickle, just a gentle touch that drifts around and down between Patrick’s legs until he reaches the opening there. Patrick stills under him, groaning into his mouth as Jonny slides his finger inside slowly. Patrick’s hot, and tight, really tight, and he’s frozen, just panting into Jonny’s mouth. Jonny pauses and pulls back a little. “You okay?”

“Yeah, just,” Patrick’s voice is fucked, deep and croaky like he’s the one who just deepthroated Jonny instead of the other way around. “Been awhile.”

“How long?” Jonny asks, a little concerned that he’s pushing Patrick to do something he doesn’t want to do.

“Uh… “ Patrick’s face is red now, but out of embarrassment. “Juniors, I think?”

“You— what? You haven’t gotten fucked since Juniors?” Jonny tries to pull away, but Patrick grabs hold of his chin.

“Yeah, but only because I couldn’t risk it,” Patrick says urgently, pulling his face closer for a kiss. “And I want it. I want you to. Please?” Jonny pulls back so he can search Patrick’s face for any sign that he’s uncomfortable, but his eyes are clear and pleading, and when Jonny moves his finger deeper and then slides it back out, his lashes flutter. “Oh, yeah, that’s... “ He gulps when Jonny presses back in with two fingers. “Please, please. Ohhhhh.”

Jonny pumps his fingers in and out slowly, pulling them out to add more lube before sinking them in as deep as he can. He spends long minutes like that, his fingers deep inside Patrick, stroking the warm, tight heat, pulling out to add more lube, tugging at his rim, until Patrick’s shaking and sweating, his hand tight on Jonny’s forearm. “Now, can you— that’s—— that’s enough, Jonny. ‘S so good, God. Fuck me, come on.”

“Okay, okay,” Jonny says shakily. He sits up and moves lower on the bed while Patrick drops onto his back. 

Jonny’s been ignoring his cock but now that he’s rolling on a condom, Patrick watching him with hazy, lust-filled eyes, his own need roars back to life. He has to close his eyes to the wanton tableau Patrick presents, legs spread, hole pink and wet, one hand around his cock, completely hard again, or Jonny’s going to go off just from looking at him. 

Patrick kicks at his side as he’s trying to get himself under control. “You still with me?”

“Yeah, just,” Jonny takes a deep breath. “Give me a second.”

“I’m just that hot, huh?” Patrick teases and then laughs when Jonny nods vigorously. 

Jonny opens his eyes again and focuses on the way Patrick’s looking at him. “You look really good like this, Pat,” Jonny says, his voice husky with desire.

“Bet I feel even better, so pull yourself together and fuck me,” Patrick demands with a smirk, and the mock-haughty tone makes Jonny laugh. It’s still Patrick, _his_ Patrick, bossy and irreverent and so fucking gorgeous. It helps Jonny pull back from the precipice, and he kneels between Patrick’s legs with more confidence that he’s not going to nut as soon as he gets inside of him.

Once Jonny’s lined up, his cock resting against Patrick’s opening, he pauses. “You sure?”

“Shut up and just do it already,” Patrick says. “What are you waiting f— fu-uuuuuuck,” he gasps out as Jonny sinks inside, not stopping until he’s buried so deep his hips are flush with Patrick’s ass.

Patrick’s hands are tight on Jonny’s biceps, so Jonny pauses a moment before pulling slowly back out, making Patrick gasp in a huge breath. “Jonny,” he says, his face open and a little lost. “I—“

“Shh,” Jonny says, thrusting inside again and then pulling back. “I know, I’ve— I’ll take care of you.”

Patrick swallows and then pants as Jonny starts fucking him in earnest, making gorgeous little noises, gasps and mewls and long, steady moans that go on and on.

“See? Intense, huh?” Jonny says, sweat dripping from his forehead and down to his chin, then onto Patrick’s lower lip. Patrick gulps and nods, licking at the bead of liquid automatically, and something about that—the pink of Patrick’s tongue, the swell of his red, puffy lips, the way he’s taking Jonny inside of him, on his tongue and in his ass—ratchets up Jonny’s arousal, and he doubles his pace, angling his hips so that the head of his cock is pressing up against Patrick’s prostate. Jonny stops thrusting and just grinds into Patrick with little turns of his hips so that his cock is rubbing Patrick’s prostate until Patrick starts to thrash under him, eyes wide open and staring at the ceiling. 

“Oh my God,” Patrick says, shaking, his hand around his cock, not stroking it so much as holding onto it. “Oh my God, Jonny, I’m coming, holy shit. Holy shit.” He thrusts his head back against the pillow, neck corded with muscle as he spasms.

Jonny stills as Patrick comes, gritting as Patrick clenches down around him, coming across his chest, long, pulsing spurts at first and then more weakly, come dribbling out as Jonny keeps circling his hips, pressing right up against his prostate.

Jonny thinks Patrick done coming when Patrick freezes suddenly, then gasps, a deep wail coming out of him as he spasms once more before collapsing back onto the pillow. Jonny can’t help the way his hips move at how tight Patrick’s gotten and it makes Patrick wince.

“Oh, oh, oh, God, stop, hurts, stop,” he says finally, his voice wrecked, shaking and soaked with sweat. “Give me — just give me a minute.”

Jonny does, paused over him, his arms shaking with the strain of holding himself up. Patrick lays there, stunned, and Jonny’s trying to figure out if it’s okay yet to pull out and finish himself off, when Patrick says quietly, “keep going.”

“What?’ Jonny’s head snaps up. “But—“

“I’m good, I’m good, just,” he licks his lips, tongue sounding thick in his mouth. “Not so much on that spot.”

“I—“ Jonny shifts and pulls out a few inches, then sinks back in again, altering the angle so he’s thrusting down instead of up towards the spot. “Is that… is that… okay?” He pants.

“Yeah,” Patrick says weakly, still unmoving except for one hand that moves to grab Jonny’s. “Come on. Want to feel you come inside me.”

That’s all the permission Jonny needs to put his back into his strokes, and it makes Patrick wince once or twice, but mostly his face stays relaxed, his eyes a little glazed over. He’s just watching Jonny, his tongue darting out to lick his lips again, eyes roaming all over Jonny’s face like a caress, dropping to look at where Jonny’s thrusting inside of him. Patrick’s still gripping Jonny’s hand but he reaches down between them with the other, grazing over Jonny’s cock where it’s moving inside of him.

The sated, drowsy, fucked-out expression on Patrick’s face and the way he’s looking at Jonny combines with the tight pressure and heat around his cock to make Jonny’s orgasm blindside him. He comes hard, his hips pumping shallowly and without rhythm. Patrick squeezes even tighter around around him, still watching Jonny, eyes searching his face with wonder, and Jonny has to close his eyes because it’s too much. He can’t physically come any more, but his whole body is buzzing with pleasure so intense it feels like he might come apart. He lowers his forehead to Patrick’s, collapsing against him as aftershocks of pleasure keep coursing through him. It’s not until Patrick pushes at him a little, saying, “you’re crushing me,” that he gathers the energy to move off and to the side. His cock slips free and Patrick makes a soft, hurt noise. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Jonny says, cuddling close once he’s stripped off the condom and tossed it aside. He takes Patrick’s mouth, licking inside and exchanging sated, drowsy kisses, stroking a hand up and down Patrick’s back, then over his ass. He can feel Patrick smile against his mouth as his fingers dip between his cheeks and brush over his hole. 

“So hot,” Jonny moans, a finger dipping inside even as Patrick hisses a little.

“It was, but _ouch,”_ Patrick complains. “Keep those fingers to yourself.”

“Sorry,” Jonny says, and he kisses Patrick in apology. “That was amazing.”

“It really was,” Patrick agrees. “Don’t know why I haven’t done that more.”

That’s something Jonny’s wondering about, too. “Why haven’t you? Bad experience? Or…”

“No, not really,” Patrick says, then shrugs. “Although, in retrospect, letting another inexperienced, closeted sixteen year-old fuck you isn’t exactly a recipe for a great first time.”

“First?” Jonny asks. “And after that?”

“Uh,” Patrick says, ducking his head and not meeting Jonny’s eyes. “After that, was… about five minutes ago.”

“Patrick—“ Jonny’s shocked. “You should’ve told me!”

“What? So what? It’s not like I’m any kind of virgin, dude. It was just something I did once, didn’t think was nearly as good as getting my dick sucked, and then didn’t have a lot of opportunity to repeat.” He shifts in Jonny’s arms. “Most of my experience with guys is limited to exchanging blowjobs in bar bathrooms.”

“But if I’d known I would’ve—“

“What? Made the most mind-blowing sex of my life even more mind-blowing?” Patrick’s cheeks are pink again. “It was great, you were great, now shut up. All this talking is harshing my post-coital buzz.”

“Okay,” Jonny says, pulling Patrick closer. They’re quiet for a minute before Jonny starts snickering. “ _Post-coital buzz?_ ”

“Shut up,” Patrick sulks, but then he’s giggling too before he wriggles around in Jonny’s arms until Jonny sighs and tucks him under his chin, spooned up behind him. “I’m just all flustered from being so close to your _Toews Tickler.”_

“Oh my God,” Jonny groans. “How long have you been waiting to use that horrible line?”

“Oh, I’ve had my eye on your tickler for a long, long time, Jon,” Patrick says, nipping at Jonny’s chest. He giggles when Jonny squeezes him, then settles against him again. “It’s a mighty fine tickler.”

“Ugh, shut up and go to sleep,” Jonny says tiredly and smiles into Patrick’s hair when he yawns on cue.


	3. He may be the mirror of my dream

When Jonny wakes up later, he’s alone, the sheets tangled around his legs. He can hear Patrick moving around in the kitchen and when he glances at the clock, it’s barely nine. He groans but levers himself out of bed, peeling the edge of one sheet away from his junk, where it’s practically glued on.

He makes a face at the ruined sheets and strips the bed, remaking it and then jumping in the shower to wash the rest of the lube and sweat off his skin. When he makes it into the kitchen, he’s greeted to the sight of Patrick sitting on his countertop devouring another slice of pie.

“You’re going to give yourself heartburn,” Jonny says mildly, rooting around his fridge for a protein drink.

“Took one of your Zantacs already,” Patrick grins around a mouthful of cherry filling and Jonny should be grossed out except it makes his already red lips a candy-apple red, and that’s doing it for him.

“Come here, you ridiculous human,” Jonny says, moving between Patrick’s knees and reaching up to lick at the smear of red at the corner of his mouth before kissing him until all the cherry taste is gone, replaced by the now familiar taste of Patrick.

“Mmmm,” Patrick hums appreciatively when Jonny pulls back. “This is nice.”

“This?” Jonny asks. “The kissing or the pie?”

“No, this,” he gestures between them. “And just, you know. Talking and hanging out and being Pat Kane, instead of _Patrick Kane, NHL Superstar TM_ ,” he intones in a deep, affected voice.

“Probably gets to be a lot,” Jonny agrees, scooping out a bite of the cherry pie filling.

“Yep,” Patrick says, looking down at his pie a little forlornly. “So this is nice.”

“It is nice,” Jonny says, and then pulls Patrick’s hand until he hops down from the counter. “And now I’m going to beat you at Mario Cart, and it’ll be even nicer.”

Patrick squawks indignantly and proceeds to show Jonny just how skilled his hands are, beating him in three straight games, and then crowing about it so obnoxiously that Jonny ends up sitting on his back, grinding his face into the rug in front of the television until he cries uncle.

They’re both laughing hard when Jonny sprawls down next to Patrick, laughter that dies down until they’re just looking at each other, still breathing hard, Patrick’s face red and sweaty.

“Come back to bed?” Jonny says, and Patrick swallows audibly and nods.

They’re up until two a.m. exchanging kisses and slow, dirty handjobs until they finally collapse, wrapped up in each other and another ruined set of sheets.

***

“I’m hungry, Patrick, get a move on!” Jonny calls, jiggling his keys impatiently.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” Patrick says, walking down the hallway and then stopping in front of a photo. “What’s this?”

Jonny walks over to see which picture he’s looking at. “Oh, that’s me with Joe Sakic when I was a kid,” he says. “Back when I thought I wanted to be a hockey player and basically lived for hockey.”

“You played hockey?” Patrick asks, surprised.

“Of course! Did you forget the part where I’m Canadian?” Jonny teases.

“Yeah, I mean, no, but—you never mentioned it before,” Patrick frowns.

“I played as a kid but I gave it up in high school,” Jonny says. “Picked soccer instead. And, I just, I didn’t want you to feel like you always had to talk hockey with me.”

“Dude,” Patrick says, judgment dripping in his tone. “I fucking love to talk about hockey.” 

“Great,” Jonny replies. “Let’s go to lunch and you can talk about hockey the whole time, deal? I’m starving!” His stomach rumbles on cue and makes Patrick bark out a laugh. He pulls his hat a little lower over his eyes.

“Lead on, my good man,” Patrick says imperiously, and Jonny rolls his eyes and locks the door, enjoying the view as Patrick walks in front of him down the stairs and outside.

He takes Patrick to a tiny diner near the Mercantile building owned by an elderly Korean couple. It was packed during the week, but on a quiet Saturday morning in May, there isn’t anyone in the restaurant but them and one family in their Sunday best.

Patrick wolfs downs his Bee Bim Bop and some of Jonny’s omelet before he’s finally full, rubbing his stomach and burping obnoxiously, then coloring when the little boy at the next table looks at him, wide-eyed.

“Charming,” Jonny says dryly, making a face.

“You love it,” Patrick grins, dimples popping, and Jonny does, so he just rolls his eyes and drains the last of his coffee to avoid embarrassing himself by agreeing.

“What’s up for today?” Patrick asks when they’ve paid. It’s another beautiful day, but too windy for fishing, so Jonny’s at a bit of a loss. They talk about a couple of options, but it’s a lot harder to hide Patrick in Chicago. They pass a small flea market and Jonny pulls Patrick into the line of stalls.

“Antiquing, Jonny? The golf and the fishing and now this?” Patrick tsks. “I can’t believe it took me this long to figure out you’re actually eighty years old.”

“Shut up,” Jonny laughs. “And this isn’t antiques, this is mostly stuff people throw away. This way they don’t all end up in a landfill or incinerator or something.”

“Oh, you mean like _reduce, reuse, recycle?_ Patrick smiles at Jonny fondly. “You’re such a new age cliche.”

“Uh uh uh,” Jonny corrects. “I prefer urban hippie.”

“I’m willingly fucking a man who’s proud to admit he’s a hippie,” Patrick says to the sky despairingly. “Why? How?”

“You love it,” Jonny says, repeating Patrick’s words from earlier and Patrick blushes. Jonny’s flooded with affection so intense, and suddenly he has to be touching Patrick, so he grabs for Patrick’s hand, twining their fingers together. Patrick grins at him and Jonny pulls him closer, leaning down to kiss him when Patrick stiffens and pulls away.

“We, we can’t,” Patrick says, glancing around quickly, but no one’s paying any attention to them. “We’re in public, Jonny. I can’t risk more photos on the internet. Especially not _that_ kind of photo.”

“Sorry.” Jonny hasn’t had that many boyfriends, and he’s not really one for PDA, but he’s never had to worry about being careful not to touch someone either. “I just— I keep forgetting that you’re, you know. You.”

“No, I’m sorry,” Patrick sighs, grabbing Jonny’s fingers and squeezing them briefly before dropping them again. “And I’m kinda, not—not _glad_ you forget. But I wish— I wish I could forget, sometimes, too.”

“Patrick,” Jonny says a little helplessly, not sure how to get back the comfortable rapport they’d been enjoying all morning. “I’m—“

“So,” Patrick says with more than a little manufactured cheer, “show me what you like about this flea market, Grandpa.”

Jonny frowns but lets it go, not wanting to upset Patrick further. They wander the aisles for an hour or so, stopping to buy cinnamon almonds and sharing the bag. Jonny has to look away from the sight of Patrick licking his fingers, his pink tongue lapping at the sticky sugar, and judging by the way Patrick blinks up at him between his lashes, he knows it.

Patrick’s been looking at a small jewelry box that his mother might like and Jonny’s been absently listening to him talk it over with the stall’s owner. Patrick brings it over to see what Jonny thinks. 

Jonny glances at it a little doubtfully. “I— it’s nice?” At Patrick’s judgmental look, Jonny shrugs. “I don’t know, it’s just a box with some flowers on the outside, I guess it’s pretty enough?”

“You’re a disgrace to all gay men,” Patrick mocks. “But it’s a good thing you don’t like girls, because you’re probably shit at picking out presents for women. Good thing for me, too,” he leers a little at Jonny and then freezes, looking at the stall’s owner, but he’s paying any attention to them.

Still, the moment disturbs Patrick enough that he pays for the item without any further haggling, accepting the small bag and leading the way back out of the stalls. They exit the market without any real plan, Patrick chewing on his fingernail with a dark look on his face. Patrick’s mostly silent as Jonny leads them back to his apartment, their pace faster than earlier. 

Patrick throws himself onto the couch and sighs, scrubbing at his head. “Sorry for that. Again.”

“Patrick,” Jonny says, at a loss. “It is what it is, and I get that. I don’t think you owe me any apologies.”

“Maybe not, but I hate that I can’t— that we can’t just… Ugh. I just hate that this is my life, sometimes, you know?”

“Yeah, I mean, obviously I get that it must completely suck to not be out, but I can’t even fathom what it’d be like to play professional hockey, let alone be one of the best players in the world.”

“Baby, you say the sweetest things,” Patrick preens, making Jonny laugh. “Seriously, though, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. Exhibit one, me having to hole up here to avoid the press.”

“Well, not everyone can have a cool job like tying tiny bits of metal and plastic so other people can fish,” Jonny says superiorly, and now it’s Patrick’s turn to snort.

“Very true,” Patrick says. “Maybe I need to rethink my career choice.” 

“Hey,” Patrick says a few minutes later, fiddling with his phone. “Do you have anything planned for today? I mean, I kind of hijacked your weekend, so if you had plans…”

“Nope, nothing,” Jonny says. “Shop is closed on the weekend until after Memorial Day, and I was going to do some fishing, maybe go golfing, but I didn’t have any real plans.”

“Want to go skating?” Patrick waves his phone at Jonny. “I can get us some private ice time at Johnny’s if you’re up for it.”

“Skating? Like with sticks and everything?”

“Yeah, of course.” Patrick pokes Jonny’s thigh with his toe. “You said you play hockey, now you can show me what you’ve got.”

“I… “ Jonny’s a little surprised that Patrick wants to take him somewhere he might run into fans or people from the Hawks, but he can’t deny he’d love to be on the ice with Patrick. “Are you sure? Won’t there be, I don’t know, fans or something around?”

“Nah, there’s nothing going on at Johnny’s today so there won’t be anyone else around.” Patrick chews on his lower lip. “If you don’t want to, that’s fine, I just thought—“

“No, I’d love to skate with you,” Jonny says, grabbing Patrick’s fingers in a loose grip. “Just don’t feel bad when I totally show you up.”

“Oh, so that’s how it’s going to be, huh?” Patrick grins, his eyes sparkling again, and Jonny hadn’t realized how tense he was until he feels himself relax inside of him. “Grab your shit and prepare to be schooled, Toews.”

Johnny’s is deserted, just like Patrick’d promised, and when they get out on the ice, a bucket of pucks spilled in front of the net, they take lazy loops around until Jonny’s panting from the exertion. They grab a drink, and then Patrick scoops up a puck and starts stick-handling around the net. Jonny watches him and then grabs his own puck, shooting at Patrick’s puck and knocking it off his stick. 

“Be serious, Jon,” Patrick complains.

“Never!” Jonny says, putting his stick between his legs and doing a shoot-the-duck.

“Oh my God, you’re ridiculous,” Patrick shouts after him, laughing.

They spend the hour alternating between making passes and having puck battles. Jonny has Patrick shoved up against the boards, the puck between his legs, and Patrick’s swearing at him when the trainer bangs on the glass, signaling the end of their ice time.

Patrick takes advantage of the distraction to wriggle free and snatch up the puck, launching it into the net and throwing his arms up like he’s just scored the game winner in overtime. “Boom, heartbreaker!” he screams, the joyful sound echoing around the empty arena, and Jonny laughs as he watches Patrick slide across the ice on his knees.

“Now who’s being ridiculous,” Jonny calls after him, unable to keep the grin off his face. They pack up the pucks and thank the trainer as the Zamboni comes on the ice.

“You’re really good,” Patrick pants as they walk to the locker room, still out of breath. “How come you quit hockey?”

“I had to choose between hockey and soccer, and I thought soccer was a better bet,” Jonny says. “I knew I was gay, and I just didn’t think I could be an out hockey player. Since I knew I didn’t want to live in the closet, and I had another option with soccer, I quit hockey.”

“Wow,” Patrick says, arrested. “That’s— that’s too bad.”

“Yeah,” Jonny shrugs. “Being a kid growing up gay, not knowing anyone in hockey who isn’t straight, at least publicly… It just felt like I wasn’t wanted, you know? Maybe if someone had come out, I would’ve seen more of a future. I don’t know.” Patrick’s still looking at him, mouth open and Jonny flushes, realizing he’s being pretty tactless. “I’m not saying anyone has to come out— or that you should—”

“No, I— I get it, Jon,” Patrick says quietly. “I felt the same way, but I decided hockey was worth it.”

“Seems like you made a pretty good choice,” Jonny says, glancing around the locker room with the photos of Patrick holding the Stanley Cup over his head.

“Maybe,” Patrick says a little absently, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “Sometimes I’m not sure.”

“Patrick—“

“Enough of this maudlin shit, I need a shower,” Patrick says and Jonny lets it go, but Patrick’s a little subdued as they clean up and head out. Jonny makes a spur of the moment decision to jump on the Kennedy and head north.

“What’s up?” Patrick asks when he finally looks up from his phone. He’s been texting furiously since they left the rink, but now he frowns over at Jonny with a confused expression on his face. “Where’re we going?”

“Just somewhere we can enjoy the rest of the day,” Jonny says and Patrick looks at him curiously but doesn’t question him any further, seemingly content to look out the window as they leave Chicago behind and enter Evanston. When Jonny pulls into the parking lot at Lighthouse Beach, Patrick grins at him.

“Taking me fishing again? Man, no wonder you’re single if this is how you woo guys,” Patrick chirps, hopping out of the car. “Fish guts and worms, not exactly the usual path to a man’s heart.”

“Nope, still too windy,” Jonny says with a little regret, because he’s been wanting to get out on Lake Michigan for a few weeks but hasn’t been able to find time. “Just thought a walk on the beach sounded nice.”

They ditch their shoes in the sand near the path from the parking lot and walk along the shore, Patrick stepping into the water once only to dance away from the waves licking at his feet. “That’s fucking cold!” Patrick glares at Jonny like it’s his fault. Jonny laughs and pulls Patrick out of the path of another wave, his arm dropping around Patrick’s shoulders. Patrick looks around to see if there’s anyone watching them, but other than the occasional jogger, the beach seems mostly deserted. Patrick flips his hood over his baseball cap, pulling it lower so he’s almost completely hidden within, and slides his arm around Jonny’s waist, pulling him closer. 

“You sure this is okay?” Jonny asks, surprised.

“Yeah, I think— it seems safe enough out here,” Patrick replies.

“Good, because I like it.” Jonny squeezes Patrick’s shoulder gently. “A lot.”

“Me, too,” Patrick replies, his smile a little wistful. “A lot.”

Jonny tightens his grip again and then they walk on, talking about little things, like the first time they’d ever gone waterskiing and how often they got home to see their respective families. Patrick pulls up short as they round a corner, turning to Jonny. “Look, Jon, it’s a lighthouse!”

“Hey, maybe that’s why this is called Lighthouse Beach!” Jonny chirps, making Patrick roll his eyes. “Want to go check it out?”

That’s how they end up climbing the one hundred and forty-one steps to the top of Grosse Pointe Lighthouse. Jonny’s done it before, but watching Patrick’s face as he reaches the top makes the whole experience feel new again.

“Wow, this is… Wow,” Patrick says, eyes darting around. “I don’t know if I like the view of downtown Chicago more or the view of the beaches and the lake.” He points toward the skyline. “It looks so much different than from my condo. It looks bigger, or impenetrable or something.”

“Yeah, distance will do that,” Jonny says, putting an arm around Patrick’s waist and peering over his shoulder. The wind has whipped the lake into a froth, and the whitecaps dotting the water make a pretty counter to the deep blue-grey that leads to the horizon where it meets the clear, deep blue of the sky. “This is gorgeous.”

“You’ve got a way with words,” Patrick teases and Jonny shrugs.

“I can recognize beauty when I see it,” he says, letting his eyes roam over Patrick’s features.

“Ugh, stop it,” Patrick grumbles but he’s got a flush high on his cheeks, and Jonny looks around to make sure they’re alone before turning Patrick in his arms and kissing him. When they finally part, Patrick looks dazed and even more gorgeous, and Jonny’s about to lean in for another kiss when his phone dings with a text.

It’s Brent, demanding to know why Jonny’s not at trivia night.

“Tell him you got a better offer,” Patrick smirks, pulling him closer and kissing him again once Jonny puts his phone away. When it dings again, they both groan.

 _with who????_ Brent demands.

“Take a photo,” Patrick says, grinning at Jonny. He holds out his phone and makes sure the view is visible behind them as he snaps a selfie. Patrick kisses his jaw just as he snaps it, then grins at the camera in the next shot.

“Send me a copy, too?” Patrick asks around a yawn, once Jonny’s sent the photos off to Brent and turned his phone off to avoid all the other questions he’s undoubtedly going to ask.

“Later,” Jonny says, because he’s as tired as Patrick suddenly looks. “Ready to head back?” They use the footpaths to get back to the car, fingers intertwined until they round a corner and see a family coming towards them. 

Jonny tries not to feel hurt by how quickly Patrick moves away, but it’s getting harder and harder to be willing to let him pull away, something Jonny firmly decides he doesn’t want to think about. Not yet, anyway.

***

They don’t talk about the moment, just fall into bed after wolfing down some sandwiches, and Patrick curls around Jonny, his head pillowed on Jonny’s chest, manhandling Jonny until he has him in a comfortable position. He’s asleep faster than Jonny, more used to napping probably, and it gives Jonny a chance to run his eyes over Patrick’s body, clad in one of Jonny’s tshirts and a pair of boxer briefs. The fabric of the briefs clings to his ass, and Jonny palms one side appreciatively. It’s not large, but it’s tight and high, rounded and muscled in the best way. It fits in Jonny’s hand like his ass was made for him personally, and he falls asleep wishing he didn’t feel like Patrick fit with Jonny just as perfectly, because this weekend has an expiration date—their relationship, whatever it is—has always had an expiration date, and if Jonny can’t keep that in his head, he’s asking for the inevitable heartache to be even worse than it was the last time.

He falls into a light sleep haunted by dreams of him chasing after Patrick, who’s wearing his Hawks jersey, the white lettering of his name across his back stark against the red fabric. Jonny keeps reaching for Patrick, the material just beyond the stretch of his fingertips. He wakes with a start and opens his eyes to see Patrick blinking sleepily at him.

“You were moaning in your sleep,” Patrick says, his voice hoarse, and it’s so deep that it stirs something hot and urgent in Jonny’s belly, mixing with the need to hold onto Patrick left in the wake of his dream. 

He rolls Patrick under him and kisses him until they’re both moving urgently against each other. Patrick slides a hand between them and covers Jonny’s cock, rubbing a thumb over the head through the fabric, and Jonny’s hips buck. Patrick smiles into his mouth and does it again, and Jonny gasps, the soft cotton scraping gently across the sensitive skin exposed as Patrick’s motions pull back his foreskin. Patrick soon has Jonny writhing on top of him, and it’s doing it for Patrick too, Jonny can tell by the urgent way he’s pushing his cock against Jonny’s abs and hip, and when Jonny bites his lip a little harder than he intends, Patrick hiccups and comes, body tensing and then relaxing on Jonny’s. He pants into Jonny’s neck and slides off a little, and Jonny rubs his shoulders, so turned on he can keep his hips from thrusting into Patrick’s hand.

“I got you,” Patrick says finally, his eyes dark and there’s something in the way he’s looking at Jonny that makes Jonny want to confess things he hasn’t even admitted to himself, and then Patrick’s face morphs, the depth of emotions fading into a simple, happy smile. “Can I blow you?” When Jonny’s mouth drops open and he just stares dumbly, Patrick’s smile becomes a smirk. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Jonny says, the word going up at the end as Patrick pushes him off and pulls down his briefs, eyeing his cock appreciatively. “Let me just,” Jonny says, pulling them down the rest of the way and kicking them off, and then Patrick’s moving down his body until he’s lying between Jonny’s knees. He takes Jonny’s cock in his hand and closes his mouth around the tip, licking at the moisture there as Jonny’s cock twitches in his grasp. 

“Mmm,” Patrick says around Jonny’s cock as he slides it into his mouth fully, and it’s so tight and wet and hot that Jonny has to close his eyes or this is going to be over embarrassingly quickly.

He loses himself in the feeling of Patrick working his cock deeper and deeper into his throat until his nose is nudging Jonny’s groin and his chin is snug up against Jonny’s balls. Patrick pulls off quickly and Jonny reaches for him, pushing on his head but Patrick resists and when Jonny opens his eyes to complain, Patrick’s slurping around two fingers. Jonny groans and grips at Patrick’s head, sliding his grip down to the back of Patrick’s neck.

“Patrick,” he complains, and Patrick grins, pulling his fingers out of his mouth and lowering them to circle Jonny’s hole. 

“You can push me down,” Patrick rasps, then puts his mouth back over Jonny’s cock and resists when Jonny pushes a little, the motion forcing the tips of his fingers into Jonny’s ass even as he bears down with more force on Patrick’s neck. Patrick moans and Jonny’s cock slides into the back of his throat, and he gags a little before his throat relaxes around Jonny’s cock, swallowing greedily in a way that makes Jonny fear he’s going to come way too soon. 

Jonny relaxes his hold on Patrick’s head, and Patrick pulls back enough to heave a deep breath in and then he’s letting Jonny push his head down again, pushing his fingers deeper inside of Jonny. They set up a rhythm that makes Jonny’s head swim with all the ways it’s assaulting his senses; the wet, tight heat of Patrick’s throat and the delicate way he runs his tongue up the length as he pulls back, the slightly dry invasion of his fingers in Jonny’s ass, moving in and out in time with his thrusts into Patrick’s mouth, and the way Patrick’s tapping a gentle rhythm over his prostate, sending jolts of pleasure through Jonny’s entire body with every touch.

He’s practically vibrating under Patrick by the time he gets to the edge of coming, and somehow Patrick holds him there for what seems like forever, twitching and panting, almost coming over and over only to have Patrick back off a little, just enough to dial it down a notch. After the fourth or fifth or hundredth time, Jonny’s drenched in sweat, his abs actually hurting from how long he’s had them clenched, and he’s begging Patrick, pleading with him to just, please let him come.

Patrick blinks up at him and lets lifts his mouth off Jonny’s cock, licking around the head and dipping his tongue delicately into the slit. When Jonny sobs, he grins up at him, tears from taking Jonny’s cock too deep making his eyelashes clump together. “You going to mess me up, Jonny?”

He pumps Jonny’s cock twice, twisting his fingers a little and then pressing down on Jonny’s prostate and that’s it. Jonny jolts and comes, body spasming as he comes all over Patrick’s mouth and chin, long bursts that slow to shorter, smaller pulses and Patrick takes his cock into his mouth again, swallowing around it and making Jonny half-sit up as the pleasure sharpens again, his lower body held down by Patrick’s weight. 

When he’s finally stopped coming, Jonny’s totally spent, and he watches in a daze as Patrick licks away the come on his mouth, then wipes the rest off his face with a tissue before flopping down on top of Jonny again, the same tableau from earlier, except this time Jonny’s breathing so hard, Patrick’s head is moving up and down where it’s resting on his chest.

“I—“ Jonny croaks, tries to swallow to get some moisture in his mouth. “I think you killed me.”

“You’re so lame,” Patrick sighs fondly.

“Death by blowjob, what a way to go,” Jonny sighs, and Patrick laughs delightedly, pinching Jonny’s side a little before he settles back against him again. This time when he falls asleep he’s too exhausted to dream about anything except how good Patrick feels in his arms.

***

It all ends so abruptly the next morning, Jonny isn’t even fully awake to process it.

When the doorbell rings, Jonny’s just getting out of the shower. He’s expecting Artemi any minute, so Patrick offers to answer it and pads to the front door wearing just his t-shirt and boxers.

Patrick shuts the door immediately and doesn’t respond when Jonny asks what’s wrong. When Jonny looks over, he’s standing next to the door, face white. 

“Who is it?” Jonny asks, concerned when Patrick just blinks at him, and yanks the door back open to see what could make Patrick this upset.

It’s not Artemi.

There’s a tall man with thick glasses and a receding hairline standing next to a photographer on Jonny’s front step. Jonny’s confused for a minute as they snap photos of him in just a towel, Patrick hovering next to him, before his brain comes on line.

“So you’re the guy—is he another one of your long string of hookups, Kane?” the man is asking, stepping close enough to shove his foot into the door and prevent Jonny from closing it again. .

“Fuck you, Lazerus, Jonny’s not just a hookup,” Patrick says hotly, finally coming to life next to Jonny. Lazerus grins, all teeth, and Jonny knows the instant Patrick realizes he’s been trapped. “He’s my — he’s a friend.”

“That’s your story? Because based on the way you’re looking at him in the selfie, absolutely no one will buy that you’re just friends.” Lazerus says skeptically. “And that’s leaving aside this morning’s, uh. Attire.” The photographer snaps another series of shots, his camera clicking. When Patrick doesn’t say anything, his jaw working silently, Lazerus rolls his eyes and looks at Jonny.

“You’re Jonathan Toes, right? Was leaking that photo your way of unofficially outing Kane? Because everyone is wondering how the owner of an obscure fishing business ends up dating the most famous athlete in Chicago. “

“Did you leak a photograph?” Patrick looks at Jonny, bewildered and Jonny stares back, equally baffled.

“Photographs. Of you boys. And they’ve already gotten,” he types at his phone and holds it up so they can see a tweet with two photos and the caption: Kane and his boy toy, “sixty-two thousand retweets and thirty thousand likes.”

It’s the selfies Jonny took the day before at the lighthouse, Patrick in his arms. In one, he’s beaming up at the camera while Jonny looks down at him fondly. The other shows Patrick’s kissing the side of Jonny’s jaw while Jonny grins at the screen happily. It’s unmistakably obvious that they’re not just friends.

“That’s — “ Patrick gasps, then his face hardens, and he pushes at Lazerus until he’s out of the doorway. “No fucking comment,” he snaps, slamming it shut as Lazerus continues to shout questions at him. He closes his eyes and leans his forehead against the door, shaking.

“Pat—” Jonny starts.

“Did you leak those photos,” Patrick hisses at Jonny. They can both still hear Lazerus shouting questions at them through the door. “Did you tip off the press? A little extra publicity for the shop, get some more foot traffic in here?”

“What? No!” Jonny denies immediately, horrified. “Pat, I would never do that to you. Never. The only person I sent the photos was Brent. I swear.”

Patrick searches his eyes for a long moment, face set, and then nods, slumping against the wall next to the door. “Thank God,” he whispers, eyes shining, “thank God.” He crumples in on himself, sliding slowly down the wall. His tremors are as bad as the night he showed up and the two moments align in Jonny’s mind; this is exactly the kind of controversy Patrick’s been trying to hide from. And now Jonny’s photos have somehow been added to the shitstorm.

“This is so bad, this is so bad,” Patrick’s chanting under his breath desperately when Jonny drops down next to him, cupping his face gently in his hands. 

“Hey, hey, come on, it’s going to be okay,” Jonny says, and Patrick glares up at him, face harsh and angry. 

“What the hell would you know about it,” he snaps.

“You’re right,” Jonny agrees placatingly. “I wouldn’t know—couldn’t know—but come on, Pat, you can get through it. I’ll help, I promise.”

They both jump when Lazerus bangs on the door again. “Do you think this is what will finally get you traded?” he yells through the door, and Jonny’s had it with this asshole. He stands and yanks open the door, grabbing Lazerus by the arm and pushing him off his front step. The photographer follows, snapping photos until Jonny growls at him.

“Get the fuck off my property,” he yells. “You’re a fucking vulture— who outs someone without their permission?”

“I would never do that. Those _photos_ you leaked outed him. I’m just following up,” Lazerus protests. “And I’m not saying they will trade him. Only saying that they should think about it, given his personal problems.”

“I didn’t leak any fucking photos. Now fuck off!” Jonny yells, slamming the door again. He looks down but Patrick’s gone, and he can hear him in the bedroom. When he gets there, Patrick’s throwing his shit into his bag, already dressed. “Pat,” Jonny starts, unsure what to say. “Why are you packing? Don’t— you don’t have to leave, I got rid of that guy.”

“I can’t stay here,” Patrick says, his shoulders set in a tense line as he turns to face Jonny. “This isn’t a safe place for me anymore. The media could come by anytime, now that they know for sure it’s you in the photos. And, I believe you didn’t leak them, but would Brent do it, try to make an extra buck or something?”

“No! I’m sure that’s not it, it must have been a mistake or something,” Jonny says, grabbing his phone off the charger and sighing when he sees he has sixty-four texts and fourteen missed calls, his mailbox completely full. He ignores them and scrolls through his messages to find the ones from Brent and groans.

“What’d he say?”

“God. Brent says he got the text at a bar last night while he was out with some work friends, and one of them got them off his phone somehow.” He looks up at Patrick. “Pat, I’m so sorry—“

“Don’t,” Patrick says, zipping up his bag with unnecessary force. “It’s not your fault; I’m the one who suggested we take it and send it to Brent.” He smiles bitterly. “Hazard of the job, fans and cellphones.”

“I’m not— I’m not some _fan_ with a cellphone, Patrick,” Jonny protests, an ache in his chest.

“No, you’re not,” Patrick’s face crumples. “I know you’re not like that, you’ve never been like that. I’m sorry, I’m just… I’m a mess. This isn’t on you. This is my life, and I don’t know why I ever thought…” He doesn’t finish the thought, scrubbing his hands over his face. “Fuck.”

“Pat,” Jonny says helplessly. “Please don’t leave. We can, I don’t know, we can manage this. Together. Let me help!”

“I’m sorry I brought all of this down on you, Jonny,” Patrick says, face pinched, as he shoves his feet into his shoes.

“It’s not your fault!”

“It kind of is, though. I’m the one who made an ass of myself in Madison. Which brought me here. And made those photos valuable enough that some jackass hijacked them off Brent’s phone.” He smiles bitterly, eyes rimmed with red.

“The photos aren’t your fault, that’s on the asshole who stole them,” Jonny says hotly, “but if anything, it’s _my_ fault. I should never have taken them— and I definitely shouldn’t have shared them with Brent!”

“Which was my idea,” Patrick reminds him again, his tone defeated. “Doesn’t matter, though, does it? This is my life, reporters like Lazerus are what I have to deal with every day. Glamorous, huh?” 

“Not at all,” Jonny says darkly. “I’d like to punch that asshole.”

“I’d enjoy that,” Patrick says, the corner of his mouth quirking briefly.

“Pat—“

“So, I should go before the rest of the media descends on you,” Patrick interrupts before Jonny can say anything else. “But I really had a great weekend. Thanks for — well. Thanks for everything. Sorry it’s ending like this.” He puts on his sunglasses and his baseball cap, then pulls his hoodie over his head. He’s almost completely shielded from view, nothing visible except his profile, and he’s still so beautiful it makes Jonny’s heart ache. 

“Please, don’t go,” Jonny begs again, and Patrick’s chewing his lip likes he’s considering it when his phone dings.

“My Uber is here, I’ll…” He sighs defeatedly. “I’ll see you around, I guess. Thanks again, Jonny.” He slips out the door, ignoring Lazerus shouting at him and climbs into the car, driving off without looking back. Jonny stands in the landing staring at the door for a long time before he drags himself upstairs. He’s making coffee on autopilot when there’s a sudden pounding on the door. His heart jumps, hoping that it’s Patrick, maybe he’s come back, maybe— 

It’s not Patrick.

Brent’s standing there, looking pained and guilty, and Jonny’s suddenly so angry with him, he sees red.

“You asshole!” Jonny shouts and Brent flinches. “What the fuck!”

“I’m sorry!” Brent says. “Jonny, I didn’t mean for— I didn’t know you were gonna send me photos of Patrick Kane kissing you!”

“So, what, you just told them?”

“No, I wouldn’t say anything and the let it drop but Dumba asked to borrow my phone to check on the Wild score and he must have snooped around and found them, I don’t even fucking know. The guy’s a snake. I found this this morning.” He holds his phone up, open to a text forwarding the photos to someone listed as _“Dumbass.”_ “Fuck, Jonny, I’m so, so sorry.”

“I — “ Jonny deflates and scrubbing at the back of his neck. “I’m — shit, Seabs, I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have jumped down your throat like that.I’m just upset.”

“Hey, no, I get it,” Brent says. He looks around. “Is Kaner here?”

“No. He just left,” Jonny says.

“Shit, I wanted to apologize. When’s he coming back?”

“He’s not.” Jonny admits. “I don’t think I’ll ever see him again.”

“Sorry, man,” Brent says.

“Me, too,” Jonny says. “Me, too.”


	4. Where he goes I've got to be

The next week is a pain in the ass as people stop by the shop looking for interviews, so he decides to let Artemi handle things for awhile. Artemi brings in his boyfriend to help out, another Russian, and he’s a big guy, intimidating looking, enough of a deterrent that eventually the reporters and bloggers stop coming in.

Jonny hires him on permanently so he doesn’t have to deal with customers and spends all his time tying lures or fishing on Lake Michigan. He ignores his smaller boat, the one he took Patrick out in, preferring to avoid more reminders of their weekend together. He knows he’s being an asshole to everyone he knows, but he can’t seem to help it, and after he snaps at Duncan one night at dinner, Brent stops by for an unofficial intervention one day in July right before the store opens.

Jonny scowls and invites him in, resigned to a scolding.

“Jonny, you have to stop torturing yourself,” Brent says. “Why don’t you just call him?”

“Tried that, he never called me back. Or returned my texts.” Jonny sighs.

“When’s the last time you tried to reach him?”

“About a week after the photos went public,” Jonny says, side-eying Brent, who winces a little.

“Sorry again,” Brent says. “Man, I never would’ve let Dumba touch my phone if I’d known. Trust me, he’s regretting it.”

“What did you do?” Jonny frowns. “You didn’t beat him up, did you? Jesus, Brent, that’s the way to get sued.”

“No, I didn’t beat him up!” Brent narrows his eyes. “Just made sure that it got out what a snake he is. I’ve been enjoying watching him lose out on deals because no one trusts him anymore.”

“Wow, that’s kind of beyond, but. Thanks, man.”

“Eh, he’s a dick, everyone hates him, he deserves it,” Brent shrugs. “Have you thought about trying to talk to Patrick again? Now that the heat is off, I mean?”

“Maybe?” Jonny shrugs, snipping off the end of the wire he’s wrapped around the fly. “I don’t know. Probably won’t, though.”

“Why?”

“Because he made it really clear that he didn’t want to be with me. And it’s been weeks, and he’s never once tried to get in touch with me.”

“Jonny — “

“I’ve been doing reading Deadspin and Twitter and it’s like he dropped off the face of the earth,” Jonny says. “And by the way? I do _not_ recommend reading the comments or replies.” He shudders. Some of the things people posted about Patrick, and even Jonny, were just horrifying. Patrick getting outed had brought all the worst of the homophobic hockey fans, and Jonny could definitely understand why Patrick had been loathe to go public.

“Do you have a Google alert for Kaner,” Brent teases, and Jonny’s face must betray him because Brent guffaws. When he’s composed himself, he says, “Seriously, dude. Call the guy. Find out for sure.”

“I don’t know,” Jonny replies. “His life is so… big, and I’m just a nobody. It’s a lot, being with someone like that. The media constantly in your face, having to worry about randoms taking your photo, fans coming up for autographs.”

“Yeah, but all relationships have issues,” Brent presses. “And it’s _Kaner_. Unless you don’t think he’s worth it?”

“Of course he’s worth it!” Jonny snaps at Brent, and Brent grins, raising an eyebrow at Jonny. “Fuck. I don’t know what to do.”

“I think you do, but you don’t want to do it,” Brent says, tapping the newspaper he brought in and drawing Jonny’s eyes to the story about Patrick re-signing with the Hawks. “He’s in town for the convention, and I have it on good authority that he’s doing a presser tomorrow at the UC as part of signing some new deal with the Hawks. You could go down there, see if you can meet up with him.”

“Maybe,” Jonny says, chewing on the inside of his cheek. Patrick’s pictured on the front page, an image from the previous season, doing one of his more animated goal celebrations, his face fierce and joyful. “I’ll think about it.”

***

Once he starts thinking about it, he’s so antsy that Artemi kicks him out of the shop before lunch. “Are make crazy eyes again. Go take walk.”

It’s ungodly hot in Chicago, easily the hottest day of summer, but he’s happy for the exercise, putting his head down and navigating through the crowds around the loop. He’s dripping with sweat when he walks over the river and looks up to find himself standing in front of Patrick’s building without realizing where his feet were taking him. He’s staring up at the sun winking off the windows, hands on his hips, when a large yellow Hummer pulls into the driveway, tires squealing. Patrick jumps out and hands his keys to a valet. He’s coming around the back of the car when his eyes lock on Jonny.

And, well. Jonny doesn’t exactly believe signs from the Universe come in the form of giant American gas guzzlers, but he’s not going to argue that this is one hell of a coincidence.

“Jonny?” Patrick calls, walking towards him. “Are you— did you come to see me?” He looks hopeful and earnest and gorgeous. His hair is lighter than Jonny’s ever seen it, longer than in May, his curls grown out and styled into something a lot less unruly. He’s got a nice tan, too, as though he’s spent the whole summer in the sun.

The lightly bronzed skin makes his eyes look even more blue, Jonny notes dazedly as Patrick walks up. A long moment goes by while Jonny stares at him, drinking him in, and Patrick’s easy smile turns a little unsure. “Jonny?”

“Patrick,” Jonny says, his voice croaky. He feels winded suddenly. “You look… great.”

“Yeah?” Patrick flushes, and Jonny nods dumbly, making him laugh. “Thanks. You look… sweaty.”

“Yeah,” Jonny pulls at his shirt where it’s clinging to his skin. “I’ve been walking.”

“In this heat? In your jeans? Are you trying to get heat-stroke?” Patrick asks.

“Yes,Patrick. That was my exact plan. How ever did you figure it out,” Jonny says dryly.

Patrick laughs, and the tension between them snaps. Jonny asks about his summer, and Patrick fills him before shifting a little and looking back to the valet stand where someone is waiting. “Uh, I’m with Sharpy, we’re supposed to go to lunch, but I can get rid of him—“

“No, no it’s fine,” Jonny says. “You don’t have to—“

“Jonny, I want to, just. Wait here, okay?” Patrick looks up at him.

“Sure,” Jonny says. Patrick beams and jogs over and speaks to Sharp for a minute before then beckoning him over. Jonny wipes his face with the hem of his shirt and grimaces when it only makes him wetter.

“So, against my better wishes, let me introduce you to Patrick Sharp. Sharpy, this is my, uh. My friend, Jonny.”

“Hi,” Sharpy smiles, a toothy grin that would be more attractive if it weren’t so terrifying. “So _you’re_ Jonny.”

“Yes?” Jonny looks at Patrick in confusion.

“It’s so nice to meet you,” Sharpy says, grin widening as he squeezes Jonny’s hand. “Patrick’s told me a lot about you.”

“He has?” Jonny parrots again, and they both look over at Patrick, who flushes and looks away.

“Indeed,” Sharpy says with a nod. “Glad you finally got your head out of your ass and showed up.”

“I—“ Jonny sputters. “What the hell—“

“Sharpy!” Patrick grab his arm. “Okay, that’s enough,” he hisses, waving for a taxi and bundling Sharpy into it quickly. Jonny exchanges a quick look with Sharpy through the windshield. His grin is gone and there’s a frankly threatening expression on his face. Jonny swallows, telling himself that the captain of the Blackhawks wouldn’t have him killed. Probably.

“Uh, sorry about that,” Patrick said apologetically once the cab pulls away. “Sharpy’s… a good friend.”

“Mmm hmm,” Jonny says noncommittally, still a little unnerved. “So.”

“Kaner?” A girl approaches, looking at Patrick. “Can we get your autograph?”

“Yeah, sure, just give me a sec?” She smiles and steps back, rejoining her friends, who squeal and giggle. It makes Jonny wince.

“Sorry again,” Patrick says apologetically. “This isn’t the best place to talk. Could we have lunch, maybe? I’d like to talk, explain some things. Somewhere quieter than this.”

“Sure, I’d like that,” Jonny says, and Patrick beams at him.

“Okay, let me go sign some shit and take a few photos, and then we can go grab some food.”

“I kind of need a shower,” Jonny says, gesturing at himself sheepishly. “How about I meet you somewhere? In like an hour?”

They agree to meet at the Gage at two. Jonny rushes home and showers, but he still arrives at the restaurant a few minutes late. When he arrives, the hostess points out the table Patrick’s sitting at, his back to the door.

He’s talking on his phone, and Jonny slows, wanting to give him his privacy, when Patrick’s voice raises, loud enough to be heard in the mostly empty dining room. “Yeah, I’m meeting someone for lunch. No, it’s nobody important. Just a guy I know. I’m just having lunch with him to, you know. Tie up a couple of loose ends.”

Jonny feels like he’s been hit with a plank, the air rushing out of him. Patrick’s laughs, one of his insincere ones. “I promise, Jesus. I’m not going to make more headlines for you to clean up.”

Jonny turns away and walks out blindly, turning instinctively toward the lake. He stops in Millenium Park, breathing like he ran a mile, as he tries to process Patrick’s words.

He shouldn’t be this gutted, he knows, but somehow, even though Patrick had left and never looked back, even though Jonny’s always known that they probably wouldn’t be able to make things between them work, he realizes now that he’s been stupidly hoping otherwise. Underneath the anger and the doubts, Jonny’d been letting himself dream about some kind of future that included Patrick.

Patrick came into his life like a whirlwind — hell, like a hurricane — and left Jonny completely off balance. But hearing him on the phone today has finally made Jonny face up to the fact that there’s not going to be a happily ever after for them. He knows he should be angry at Patrick, but all he can feel is regret for what might have been if they’d met in another life, somehow on more equal footing.

What was he thinking? That he’d be, what, Patrick’s boyfriend? That he’d hang out with the other players’ wives and girlfriends at the games, and walk the red carpet with him at the NHL Awards? It’s ridiculous. Jonny wouldn’t fit in with the elite crowd Patrick runs with. And really, Patrick doesn’t want to make room for him, he’s never wanted to be an out hockey player. He probably just wants something quiet and discreet, not a secret, but nothing that draws attention to him being gay. And Jonny wants a boyfriend who can hang out with his friends, go for a beer after work, play on their trivia team. Not someone who spends have the year traveling every few days.

It would never have worked, he thinks, touching the smooth surface of the Bean and making a face at himself. Better to end it now, before Jonny let's himself fall deeper in love with Patrick and losing him hurts even more.

He’s almost convinced himself that this is all for the best by the time he leaves the Park an hour later. He makes his way back to the store and is unlocking the door just as Patrick’s coming down the sidewalk, carrying a small box, looking relieved. “Holy shit, Jonny, I’m so glad you’re okay!”

“I’m fine,“ Jonny replies, unlocking the door. It’s after five, and Artemi’s locked up for the day. A little of the anger from coming back as he thinks about the phone call at the restaurant once they’re inside, Patrick peering at him with concern.

“Shit, man, I was so worried,” Patrick says. “Thought you probably fainted from heat stroke or something and were lying in a hospital or something.”

“I’m fine,” Jonny says again, arms folded across his chest.

“Did something happen? It’s not like you not to show up,” Patrick asks a little hesitantly when Jonny doesn’t say anything else.

“Oh, I showed up,” Jonny says mildly. “But you were on the phone. Figured you didn’t need to waste an entire lunch hour _tying up loose ends, so I left.”_

“Shit.” Patrick blanches. “Jonny, I didn’t—I didn’t mean anything by that! I was talking to Stan Bowman, who’s constantly warning me I can’t fuck up again and blow my new contract with the Blackhawks before the ink’s even dry.”

“Oh, I’m sure you had a good reason, Patrick,” Jonny says, resigned. And the thing is, Patrick probably thinks he does. “It doesn’t matter, though, because I think we’re done. Whatever we’ve been doing, I think we can both admit it’s not gonna work.”

“No, please, just listen,” Patrick pleads. “Jonny, please—I fucked up so badly in Madison, and then I got into more trouble with those photos we took, and I just. I’m so tired of being in trouble with the Hawks and my family, my agent. So I said a few things I shouldn’t have. You know I didn’t even mean it—”

“You said I wasn’t anyone important,” Jonny says, working his jaw as the words resonate in his memory. “And since I haven’t seen or heard from you in more than a month, I’m pretty sure that’s accurate.”

“I didn’t mean it like that! Honest—I just can’t let people down again,” Patrick’s face screws up. “And my agent’s at the top of that list.”

“I get that, Pat,” Jonny says, because he does, but it doesn’t matter. “But honestly? At this point, I’m just tired of all of this. Agents and fans and scandals, it’s just too much. I’m not cut out for the kind of celebrity or notoriety or whatever that your life requires.”

“None of that celebrity stuff is really _me_ though.” Patrick’s jaw works. “Underneath all the media bullshit, I’m just a hockey player. I’m just me.”

“And I get that, and I like _you_ , usually.” Patrick flushes. “But we live in completely different worlds. You’re the reigning Hart Trophy winner. I make money selling fishing lures.”

“That doesn’t mean we can’t be together!” Patrick protests, voice thin. “It doesn’t have to.”

“I’m sorry, but I think it does,” Jonny says, gently. “I think you know it, too, you’re just not admitting it.”

“Jonny—“ Patrick blinks at him for a moment, pale and unhappy. He looks down at the box in his hand. “I’m sorry you feel that way.”

“I’m sorry, too,” Jonny says, and he means it.

“But I wish— I wish things were different,” Patrick says quietly, “because in the end, I’m just a guy, standing in front of another guy, asking him to take a chance on him.”

“Pat,” Jonny says, his heart aching, but he knows it’s only going to hurt worse if he keeps holding onto this thing he’s got for Patrick. “I just, I can’t.”

“Oh— okay,” Patrick says, even quieter. He’s pale despite his tan. “I guess I should go?”

“It’s for the best,” Jonny agrees, his hands curling into fists to keep from pulling Patrick in and begging him not to leave.

“It’s been really great knowing you, Jonny. Thanks for being there for me a few months ago. For everything, really.”

Patrick places the box carefully on the counter and turns to leave. Jonny has to close his eyes to the sight of his slumped shoulders and when the shop bell jingles, he opens them to see Patrick waiting there. “Goodbye, Jonny.”

“Goodbye, Patrick,” Jonny manages to reply and then Patrick’s gone, walking briskly away without looking back.

Jonny forces himself to watch him go.

***

He eyes the gift suspiciously but carries it upstairs with him. It takes three shots of whisky and a pint of non-dairy ice cream before Jonny can work up the courage to open Patrick’s gift. When he pulls back the tissue paper inside, he inhales.

It’s a Colorado Avalanche jersey, the same era as the one Joe Sakic was wearing in the photo Jonny’s got in his hallway from when he was a kid. It’s small and has clearly been worn a lot, because it’s got a smear of mustard on one sleeve and a small pink stain on the collar. When he flips it over to see if the number matches, he’s stunned to see that it’s personally signed by Sakic.

_”To Jonny, Maybe we can go fishing together sometime! All the best, Joe Sakic”_

There’s a card, and Jonny has to knock back another shot before he can work up the nerve to open it.

_”Jonny, saw this at my mom’s and thought you’d like to have it. Scotty got it signed for me. Hope you enjoy it! Patrick_

Jonny groans, letting his head drop onto the back of the couch. “Fuck,” he says, rubbing the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Fuck.”

***

Brent and Dayna, Duncan, Artemi and Anisimov are gathered in Jonny’s living room the next morning, looking at him with varying degrees of pity and concern as Jonny runs through the events of the day before.

“Obviously I did the right thing,” Jonny says, “right?”

No one responds except Brent, who agrees quickly, and Artemi, who shakes his head.

“No,” Artemi says firmly again. “Patrick like you, you like Patrick, what is problem?”

“The problem is exactly what he just said. How is Jonny ever going to fit in Patrick’s ridiculous life? Hockey games and charity events, being on the front page of the sports section. It sounds awful. You definitely did the right thing.” Brent argues loyally.

“But Jonny loves Patrick.” Artemi says and—he’s not wrong, Jonny thinks.

“He doesn’t love Patrick,” Brent scoffs.

“Eh,” Duncan says, gesturing obliquely at Jonny. When he doesn’t continue, Jonny looks at Brent for a translation. “Kinda looks like love to me.”

“Shut up,” Brent says. “You’re not helping.”

“He didn’t say anything,” Jonny says.

“You should definitely go to the press conference at the UC today,” Duncan says.

“I don’t know if that’s —”

“He should not,” Brent protests. “And give that jerk another chance to break his heart?”

“Hey, he’s not a jerk!” Jonny protests.

“See? Love,” Duncan says, and Brent huffs, crossing his arms.

“Do you want to go?” Dayna asks, handing Jonny a cup of coffee. Jonny shrugs, because he does, he basically always wants to be in Patrick’s presence. The question is whether he _should_ go.

When he says as much, Dayna rolls her eyes at him. “You’re overthinking this.”

“I am?”

“Do you love him?” She asks gently.

“I — I think I could, yeah,” Jonny admits.

“And he wants to be with you. After that, pretty much everything else can be worked out.”

Jonny looks around the room and everyone seems to be nodding, even Brent looking a little softer since Jonny confessed his love.

“Fuck it. What do I have to lose?” Jonny grins.

“Exactly,” Dayna says. “Go get your boy.”

***

Jonny makes it to the United Center in record time. He’s waved in and directed where to park, and as he walks up to the entrance, another man holds the door open for him.

“Thanks,” Jonny says politely. “Here for the press conference?”

“Indeed,” the man replies, smiling at him broadly. They chat briefly as they walk up to security. He must be an employee of the Hawks because he gets waved through quickly, Jonny whisked in along with him.

“Mr. W!” Someone rushes up to the man. “They’re waiting for you in the small conference room.”

“Nice meeting you,” Mr. W. says, shaking Jonny’s hand and directing the staffer to escort him to the press conference before he walks away.

Jonny’s a little amazed that no one’s asked him to provide credentials, but he’s not going to ask any questions. He stands awkwardly in the back, next to a woman with a notepad and a travel mug that says _“I’D RATHER BE ON STAYCATION_.” She smiles at Jonny, and he realizes she’s Tracey Myers from CSN Chicago.

“You’re new,” she remarks. “Who are you with?”

“With?”

“What publication do you work for?” she asks. “Or are you a new blogger?”

“Oh! Uh… Fish and Stream,” Jonny blurts out, unable to think of anything else.

“Fish and Stream?” She deadpans.

“Yes, we’re doing a feature on Patrick Kane because he’s so hard to catch,” Jonny says lamely.

“I… don’t know how to respond to that,” she says, side-eying Jonny. “But, uh. Good luck with your story.”

“Thanks,” Jonny calls after her lamely as she walks away. “You too.”

He’s not surprised or offended when she ends up sitting on the other side of the room. Jonny stays in the back, tucked out of the way behind the bank of cameras trained on the small dias with name tags and empty chairs, awaiting the principals.

Patrick walks in with several other men about ten minutes later, and the noise in the room increases and then settles. When the man Jonny’d walked in with follows them out and sits next to Patrick, Jonny realizes he’s Rocky Wirtz, and his face flames thinking about how he’d complained to him about the Hawks trading Dustin Byflugien two years ago.

John McDonough makes the initial remarks, and Jonny feels even more awkward that he doesn’t have a notepad to write on. He quickly pulls out his phone and holds it up like others are doing, just as McDonough is wrapping up.

“The Hawks are pleased to affirm our commitment to Patrick, and we’re pleased that Patrick is affirming his commitment to the Hawks. We look forward to a long and successful partnership together. With that, I’ll turn this over to Stan,” McDonough concludes.

Bowman starts by thanking Patrick for his years of service and all he’s done for the franchise since he was drafted first overall. “Patrick remains one of the best, if not the best player in the league,” Bowman continues. “Patrick and his team have been working with me for the past few weeks to make this deal, and it’s a sign of Patrick’s investment in the team that he’s leaving some of the money he could earn as a free agent on the table by signing this contract with us today. He’s made it clear that his number one priority is to help lead this team to another Stanley Cup, and we’re thrilled to have him.”

Bowman clears his throat. “I also want to reiterate that Patrick has our complete support. We know his character on and off the ice, and we couldn’t be happier to stand behind him as he matures and grows. I lived with Patrick for the first year of his career, and he stood by me when I was sick with cancer, even though I told him he should probably move out, if he wanted. But he didn’t, wouldn’t even consider it, and I’ll never forget him helping my wife out, playing with our boys. I will always believe in Patrick, and I’m happy to be part of the team that has signed him to a contract that will help ensure he remains a Blackhawk for life.”

Jonny watches Patrick smile at Bowman gratefully, and then it’s Quenneville’s turn. He talks about meeting with Patrick when he joined the team, and credits Patrick’s quiet leadership in the locker room for making Quenneville’s transition as the Hawks’ new head coach easier.

“Kaner’s been the heart of this team for years, and the bigger the stage, the better he performs. He’s a special, special player.” He glances over at Patrick with a smirk. “Now if I could just get him to do a little more on the backcheck…”

The whole room laughs, and Patrick shoots Quenneville a grateful smile.

Then it’s Patrick’s turn to talk, and he thanks everyone at the table, and his parents, nodding over to a middle aged couple sitting in the first row. “My dad was the first person to believe in me, to think that I had what it took to be in the NHL even though everyone told him I was too small. I’ll never forget all the sacrifices he and my mom made, and my sisters, too, so that I could pursue my dream. So this contract today and everything I’ve achieved in my career is as much thanks to them as it is to me because I wouldn’t be here today without them.”

Patrick squares his shoulders, saying, “And I want to apologize, again, for what happened in Madison this summer. I’m sorry for causing harm to the Blackhawks, and my behavior was unacceptable and embarrassing. I know I’m really lucky that Rocky and Stan and the rest of the Blackhawks organization were willing to give me another chance. I’m going to put this behind me, and I look forward to only making headlines on the ice from now on.”

Bowman opens it up for questions, and Tracey earlier gets called on first, asking Patrick how it felt to sign such a long contract.

“It feels amazing to know the Hawks believe in me enough to give me eight years,” Patrick says. He takes another question about whether he’s going to play center or wing when the season starts up again, and Quenneville handles that one deftly, complementing Patrick’s willingness to try the center position, but saying that his creativity and playmaking ability was better suited to the wing.

“Patrick, can you talk about the photos that came out of you and that man this summer? Is that a sign of your new maturity, or is that another example of something you’ve done that embarrassed the team, and that you’re apologizing for here today?”

Jonny looks around to see who asked the question, furious, and realizes it’s that dick who came to his apartment in May. The atmosphere in the room shifts abruptly as Patrick stares at Lazerus stonily. When he does answer, it’s with a clear voice that rings out in the suddenly charged silence of the room.

“I’m not ashamed of that, and I’m not ashamed of being gay, either, if that’s what you’re asking,” Patrick says. The reporters are all leaning forward, jotting hurried notes. “If anything, I’m embarrassed that I brought any attention on Jonny; he wasn’t guilty of anything except being my…” he pauses almost imperceptibly, “friend. And to have him dragged out and named in the media, effectively outed against his will, was unfair and dangerous.”

“But—“ Lazerus says when Patrick tries to call on someone else. “Are selfies of you and your _friends_ the kind of thing we can expect from you with your newfound _maturity?_ ”

“I’ll take that one,” Stan says, voice icy. “What Patrick went through this summer when tabloid outlets and irrelevent internet bloggers published stolen photos was deplorable. A man’s sexuality shouldn’t be tabloid fodder, and anyone who focuses their journalistic efforts on those types of homophobic stories is not welcome in the Hawks press box or our dressing room.”

“What about the other photos, the stories from Madison?” Lazerus presses, seemingly unworried about the veiled threat. “Surely those weren’t something the Hawks wanted to see from their alternate captain?”

"We all saw the photos," Kane said. "They're pretty embarrassing. But it's something I regret, and I've put behind me and I won’t put myself in that position again.”

Tracey asks Patrick another question then, steering the conversation back to hockey, and while he’s answering, Patrick scans the room and he sees Jonny. His voice wavers for a moment, and then he goes on, but he keeps glancing at Jonny every few moments until the press conference is over. Jonny hovers in back while everyone else packs up and leaves, and he sees Patrick speak to his mom and dad, hugging his mom before they walk out with the last of the media.

When it’s finally just Jonny and Patrick, there’s a long moment of silence in the suddenly quiet room.

“Why are you here, Jonny?” Patrick asks warily. “I thought we said all we needed to yesterday.”

“I wanted to apologize,” Jonny says, taking a step closer. “I shouldn’t have sent you away yesterday.”

“No, I understand, I probably wouldn’t want to date a guy like me if I came with all this,” he swept his arm at the room. “Check that; I _definitely_ wouldn’t want to date a guy like me.”

“But that’s dumb, I’m _dumb_ ,” Jonny protests. “You’re awesome. And all of this, the press, the media circus, whatever, none of that really matters.”

“Really?” Patrick asks doubtfully. “Because it sure seemed to matter to you yesterday when you turned me down.”

“I— I know, and I’m sorry about that,” Jonny says. “I shouldn’t have sent you away. Because I won’t lie, this is a lot,” now it’s Jonny’s turn to gesture at the room, “you’re life is a lot. But you’re worth it.”

“You— “ Patrick blinks at Jonny for a long moment. “You’re wrong, trust me. You’d hate having to deal with the fans and the reporters and— and—”

“I might,” Jonny interrupts moving a little closer. “I probably would, actually. But like you said yesterday, that’s not you. You, Pat, the guy from Buffalo with the big family, the one who chirps me about how dumb fishing is, but goes out and casts better than I can after one afternoon, the guy who can eat his own weight in pie, who can make me laugh even when it’s at my own expense. That guy? That guy is definitely worth it.”

“Jonny,” Patrick breathes shakily, and he watches with round, wide eyes as Jonny steps close enough to pull him into his arms. “What are you saying?”

“That I’m willing to do this. If you are. I’m not gonna lie, sometimes it’s gonna suck, and I’m gonna want to break cameras or punch out reporters,” Jonny says darkly, thinking of that asshole Lazerus. “But if it means I get to be around you? Be with you? I’ll deal with it.”

“I— are you sure?” Patrick asks fiercely. “Because Jonny, I can’t go through that again, I’ve missed you so much, and I was so excited to see you, but then you sent me away…”

“I’m sure,” Jonny promises.

Patrick launches himself into Jonny’s arms, pulling his head down so their lips meet. It’s a gentle kiss, firm but not urgent, and Jonny sighs when Patrick pulls back, searching his eyes before diving back in for another kiss.

“I missed you so much,” Patrick says fervently. “So take me home so I can blow you.”

Jonny doesn’t break any speeding laws on the way home, but it’s a near thing. Patrick parks in front of the shop and waits impatiently while Jonny unlocks the door to the apartment. He’s snug up behind him, his hands roaming all over and distracting Jonny until he finally fits the key into the lock properly and he can pull Patrick inside and push him against the closed door. “Jerk,” he says into Patrick’s mouth, and Patrick chuckles, a deep, happy sound, which makes Jonny smile.

Patrick pushes Jonny back with a finger. “Bedroom or couch?”

“What?” Jonny says, distracted by a freckle on Patrick’s cheek that he has to taste.

“Jonny. Focus. Bed or couch?” When Jonny keeps staring uncomprehendingly, he rolls his eyes and starts backing up. “Come on, let’s take this somewhere horizontal. I want to get up close with the Toews Tickler again.”

“Oh my God,” Jonny groans. “That’s, that’s awful. Why? Why would you—“

“Finally got your attention, didn’t I?” Patrick says dancing backwards and quirking his fingers. “Now come on.”

They don’t make it to the bedroom, Patrick pushing Jonny over the back of the couch and then jumping over it before Jonny can react. He’s still a little winded — from the kiss, from the gleam in Patrick’s eye, from _Patrick_ —and he just lies there as Patrick rearranges them until he has Jonny where he wants him.

Patrick’s looking up at him from between his lashes as he licks one hand obscenely and pulls Jonny’s zipper down with the other. The feel of the zipper over his erection finally snaps Jonny out of his immobility and he hurries to pull his jeans out of the way, then reaches for Patrick’s jacket. Patrick shrugs him off and starts pulling at Jonny’s dick, which goes from half-hard to totally interested fast enough that Jonny’s head starts spinning again.

Or maybe it’s just Patrick.

Because Patrick looks amazing, glorious, so focused on watching Jonny’s dick as he works it with his clever, clever hands that it makes a fizzy wave of heat curl up from his toes to the top of Jonny’s head, and Jonny can’t look away. The tip of Patrick’s tongue peeks out of the corner of his mouth, and Jonny groans as Patrick tongues at his lower lip, drawing Patrick’s gaze up to Jonny’s face for the first time since he got Jonny’s dick out.

“Yeah?” Patrick’s eyes narrow, pupils blown black. “You want my mouth?”

“God, Pat,” Jonny groans again. “Anything, everything, your mouth, your hands, your cock, just —“

“My cock?” Patrick licks his lips again. “Want me to fuck you? Or want me to suck you?”

“I don’t care,” Jonny gasps as Patrick works him just right. “Just— just need you.”

“Hmm,” Patrick smirks. “Maybe—“ He slides down Jonny until he’s settled between his knees, pulling Jonny’s jeans all the way off in the process. Patrick’s still in his suit, wool scratchy against Jonny’s inner thighs as he brushes his hands up to frame Jonny’s cock, pulling the foreskin back. The image is enough to make a spurt of precome well out of the tip. Patrick grins and laps at the wet head, then runs his lips over it, and the sensation of the slightly chapped surface of his mouth dragging across the sensitive skin is almost unbearable. Jonny’s hips hitch involuntarily, and Patrick presses him firmly down, strong enough to resist even as Jonny tests his hold. He grins up at Jonny, his lips sucking at the head of his cock, before slowly, slowly lowering himself until he’s taking in the entire length, never losing eye contact even as his lids flutter and he chokes a little.

“Holy shit,” Jonny gasps when Patrick’s got him in the back of his throat. “Holy shit, Pat…”

Patrick swallows and Jonny’s hands scrabble against the couch cushions, desperate for something to hold onto, and Patrick grabs one and puts it on the back of his head. He pulls off, a long slow slide that makes Jonny gasp again. “Come on, touch me,” Patrick rasps, and Jonny’s cock jerks at how fucked out his voice sounds already, as though he’s been sucking Jonny off for hours instead of minutes. “But don’t come, want to be inside you when you come,” he says and then takes Jonny deep again, and Jonny can only hold on as Patrick works him over, his clever mouth alternating between tight suction and soft swirls of his tongue, until Jonny’s shaking and sweating underneath him.

Patrick pulls off and pushes Jonny’s knees higher, licking down to his balls and sucking one and then both inside his mouth, delicately rolling them over his tongue. He presses his thumb into the space below, pressure that makes Jonny’s toes curl as pleasure sparks through his groin. Patrick lets Jonny’s balls fall out of his mouth and licks down the seam splitting them, and then lower, until he’s running his tongue over Jonny’s taint, and Jonny’s head slams back as he laps at the edge of Jonny’s rim.

“Patrick, you—I can’t— _please—“_ Jonny pleads, and he can feel as much as hear Patrick shush him, the susurration of Patrick’s breath over his rim.

“So pretty here,” Patrick says, a little awed, and Jonny spurts more precum onto his stomach. “You’re opening up for me, and I haven’t even touched you yet.” He rubs a thumb across the opening and Jonny presses into it until the pad is pressing inside, a little too dry to make any real progress, but the pressure alone is enough to make Jonny’s mouth drop open with how good it feels.

Jonny tenses as Patrick leans in and licks at the edges of his thumb, then moves it and licks delicately across Jonny’s hole. “Pat—“ he chokes out, then moans as Patrick licks him again, passing over the furled muscle over and over. Just as Jonny’s getting used to the soft licks, Patrick’s tongue wriggles and pushes inside him, and Jonny can’t help keening at the way it lights him up from inside, his breath coming faster and faster. No one’s ever done this to Jonny—rimming isn’t something he even likes in porn—but the way Patrick’s attacking him, worming his way inside Jonny in the most intimate way possible, is so intense Jonny can’t think.

He manages to open his eyes, because he has to see this, and the sight that greets him is so hot he almost comes without a hand on his cock. Patrick’s still fully clothed, his suit getting crushed as he pumps his hips into the couch cushions. He’s as turned on by what he’s doing to Jonny as Jonny is, His mouth is a brilliant red, lips swollen and his tongue, when he pushes it out, is pointed as he penetrates Jonny again with it.

“Oh my God,” Jonny whimpers and Patrick hums, the vibrations making Jonny moan.

Patrick’s lips quirk a little, and he adjusts his grip on Jonny’s hips before he resumes his task. His eyes are closed, long, dark lashes sweeping over his cheeks, which are flushed red. He’s sweating, just like Jonny, and as Jonny watches, a droplet eases down over his temple and down his jaw. Jonny reaches out to brush it away and Patrick opens his eyes, his gaze hot. He sticks out his tongue and licks obscenely slowly across Jonny’s hole, making Jonny gasp.

Patrick pulls back, and Jonny scrabbles at his head, trying too push him back into position between Jonny’s legs, but Patrick stays just out of reach, dipping his fingers into his mouth and licking them until they’re thoroughly wet, then returning them to Jonny’s hole. He pushes them inside slowly, the first almost achingly slow, and Jonny shifts impatiently as Patrick opens him up.

“Lube?” Patrick asks, his voice deep and turned on. Jonny can’t get his throat to work so he just shakes his head and Patrick huffs. “Don’t you keep lube here, man?”

“No,” Jonny croaks.

“Ugh,” Patrick, biting at Jonny’s inner thigh and then sucking at the red mark he’s making. “How can I fuck you on your couch without lube?”

“Oh my God, stop whining,” Jonny says, pulling himself together enough to push Patrick away so he can sit up. His hole feels puffy and open, almost loose enough, but as tempting as the idea of taking Patrick bare, is, Jonny’s definitely not taking him dry. He jogs to the bedroom to grab a condom and lube, but when he turns to head back to the couch, he almost runs over Patrick, who’s followed him into the room.

They make out for a few minutes, slowing things down out of an unspoken agreement, and when Jonny finally pulls Patrick closer to the bed, Patrick resists. “Wanna get naked, baby,” Patrick says, pushing Jonny back onto the bed as he pulls off his jacket and loosens his tie.

Patrick has a point, although there’s a part of Jonny that’s loving the fantasy of Patrick fucking him while he’s fully clothed, Jonny spread out naked beneath him, and Patrick laughs when he sees Jonny watching him. “You kinky fucker, you’re totally into this, aren’t you?”

“Maybe,” Jonny says, relaxing back against the pillows, enjoying the view as Patrick strips himself out of first his shirt and then pants and socks until he’s naked, too. His cock is hard and leaking, and it looks bigger than it did the last time they fucked, although Jonny thinks that might just be his anticipatory anxiety at bottoming.

Patrick crawls on top of Jonny, kissing him swiftly and swiping across his mouth with his tongue as he pulls away. “Gonna fuck you now,” he says, putting the condom to one side and opening the lube. “You sure?” When Jonny nods, Patrick slides a slick finger into him, and then two fingers, adding lube until Jonny feels loose and slick. A little drips down between his cheeks and it makes him wonder what it would be like to take Patrick bare, to feel that tangible evidence of Patrick fucking him leak out for hours, and his cock twitches.

Patrick eases inside Jonny and pauses when Jonny squirms a little under him, stretched just a little wider than is comfortable. Jonny doesn’t bottom often, even though many of his partners seem to think having an ass like his means he’s a prostate slut, so it takes a minute to adjust to Patrick’s cock. Patrick’s not small, but the widest part of his cock is the head, so once that’s inside Jonny, it’s a simple matter of tipping Patrick forward a little, and he’s quickly bottoming out, the length of him feeling hot inside Jonny even through the latex.

“Oh my God,” Patrick’s chest is heaving, and his arms are straining as he holds himself over Jonny. “Jonny—“

“Yeah,” Jonny says, “come on, move, fuck me, Pat.”

Patrick pulls back, then slides back in, the motion lighting up every nerve in Jonny’s body. After that, Jonny’s too turned on to think, just reacting as Patrick fucks him. He sits up a little, pulling Jonny’s legs up until he can drape them over his shoulders, then leaning back in close again, capturing Jonny’s bottom lip between his teeth and biting down just as he angles in and nails Jonny’s prostate. Jonny sees stars, clenching down on Patrick’s dick and wringing a groaning cry out of Patrick.

“You can’t— I’m gonna fucking nut if you do that,” Patrick pants.

Jonny laughs, brushing his thumb over Patrick’s cheekbones. “Isn’t that the whole point?” he teases, then he’s the one groaning as Patrick doubles his pace. Jonny reaches between them, jacking himself lightly, not wanting to come yet but suddenly his orgasm is roaring up through him, taking him by surprise. When Patrick stops, buried deep inside, and jabs his hips in little circles, Jonny comes, an orgasm that seems to encompass his entire body, his cock jerking and ass clenching around Patrick’s length and Patrick makes a choked noise and comes, too, collapsing on top of Jonny even while he’s still emptying into the condom.

Jonny grips Patrick to him, clenching down as aftershocks continue to roll through him, each one making Patrick whimper a little. When Jonny finally stills, Patrick eases out and rolls onto his back, panting.

It’s quiet, comfortable, and Jonny’s contemplating never moving again when Patrick sighs. Jonny manages to turn his head and look over at Patrick, bathed in the sunlight pouring in from his window. His hair’s a little longer than it was in May but nowhere near the length he usually wears it. It’s so blond that it turns almost white when the sun hits it. He’s beautiful, and Jonny thinks he could lay here forever, drinking in the sight, when Patrick turns his head and meets his eyes, a relaxed, happy grin playing around his lips.

It feels like something important is stretching out between them as they lay there staring at each other in the quiet that’s only interrupted by their labored breathing.

When Patrick finally speaks, he has to clear his throat twice to make his voice work. “I’m in love with you, you know that, right?”

“I—“ Jonny swallows hard around the knot in his throat.

“When I stayed here before, I fell in love with you,” Patrick says, a hitch in his voice.

“Got that beat, fell for you in March when you kept coming by the store,” Jonny says, voice thick.

Patrick makes a noise and then he’s kissing Jonny, closed mouth, relieved kisses that turn softer until he pulls back so he can look into Jonny’s eyes. “God, I love you.” He sniffs a little. “I wanted to tell you in May, but those photos got out. And I thought I couldn’t have you, couldn’t have _this,_ and it just—“ Now it’s Patrick’s turn to swallow, his throat bobbing. “I’ve been so miserable, Jonny. You have no idea.”

“Oh, but I think I do,” Jonny says, pulling Patrick back him into his arms. “I’ve been miserable, too. Just ask Seabs. And Duncs. And Artemi. And—“

“I get it, I get it,” Patrick says, poking Jonny’s side. “Same here, except substitute Jackie and Jess and Erica. Thank God I had them to talk to about you.” He frowns. “Unfortunately it means they’re not your biggest fans right now.”

“Great,” Jonny sighs. “Already in the doghouse with my boyfriend’s family.”

“Boyfriend, huh?” Patrick says, waggling his eyebrows like the ridiculous human being he is, but Jonny can see the vulnerability lurking in his eyes.

“Yep,” Jonny says firmly. “I mean, unless you don’t— ”

“Oh, I want to,” Patrick says, cuddling closer. “Now that I’ve got you, I’m not letting you go.”

They’re quiet after that, long enough that Jonny thinks Patrick’s fallen asleep until he says quietly, “You know being with me is gonna suck, right?”

“What?” Jonny frowns. “Being with you — “

“No, I don’t mean this,” Patrick says, sweeping his hand to indicate their bodies and the room. “I mean out there, in public, with the media. With the fans. It just never ends — there’s always someone who wants an autograph or an interview, always someone filming me or taking a photo on their phone and. Well, you’ve seen what happens then.”

“I don’t care.”

“I know you say that now, but just…” He sighs. “I come with all of that bullshit and I’ll understand if it gets to be too much for you.”

“Pat,” Jonny says, lifting Patrick’s chin when he doesn’t look up. “We talked about this. And I love you. _You._ I don’t care about any of that other shit.”

“You might,” Patrick says darkly. “When it’s a photo of us dancing or kissing on Deadspin. Or worse.”

“See, now, that’s where you’re wrong, because I don’t dance in public,” Jonny says, making Patrick snort and roll his eyes, his expression easing. “But honestly, I’m not gonna care, even then.”

“You’re gonna be the boyfriend of the first openly gay man in the NHL,” Patrick warns. “The first member of the Hawks’ ‘Wives and Girlfriends” group to be a guy. The first—“

“I don’t know if you know this about me,” Jonny says conspiratorially. “But I really love being first.”

“Jonny, this isn’t a joke,” Patrick complains a little sulkily, and Jonny sighs.

“It’s also not that serious to me,” Jonny says, shaking Patrick a little. “You’re the one I”m serious about. You’re the one who matters, not the fans or the media or Mark-fucking-Lazerus.”

“Ugh, please don’t say that asshole’s name when we’re naked,” Patrick says disgustedly.

“Sorry, sorry,” Jonny says, kissing Patrick’s head in apology. “And I’m probably going to dislike it or even hate it sometimes. But I don’t care much what happens outside of this bed. This? Us? It’s always gonna be more important than any of that. And frankly, we’re the only people who need to be okay with us. Everything else— everyone else — is just noise.”

“You say that now,” Patrick says, but he’s relaxed a little in Jonny’s arms, a tension Jonny hadn’t even really noticed easing. “But when we’re having a romantic dinner and a kid comes up asking for an autograph or a photo... “

“If that happens—when that happens—we’ll deal with it,” Jonny says. “Together.”

**Author's Note:**

> "She" by Elvis Costello is such a perfect 1988 song that I thought I'd put the entire lyrics here. Choosing only four chapter titles was so hard, I almost broke this into smaller chapters lol. If you don't already listen to this on repeat and think about Jonny and Patrick, well. You're clearly not living the good life.
> 
>  **She**  
>  She may be the face I can't forget  
> The trace of pleasure or regret  
> May be my treasure or the price I have to pay  
> She may be the song that summer sings  
> May be the chill the autumn brings  
> May be a hundred different things  
> Within the measure of a day 
> 
> She may be the beauty or the beast  
> May be the famine or the feast  
> May turn each day into a Heaven or a Hell  
> She may be the mirror of my dream  
> A smile reflected in a stream  
> She may not be what she may seem  
> Inside her shell
> 
> She, who always seems so happy in a crowd  
> Whose eyes can be so private and so proud  
> No one's allowed to see them when they cry  
> She may be the love that cannot hope to last  
> May come to me from shadows of the past  
> That I'll remember 'till the day I die 
> 
> She may be the reason I survive  
> The why and wherefore I'm alive  
> The one I'll care for through the rough and ready years 
> 
> Me, I'll take her laughter and her tears  
> And make them all my souvenirs  
> For where she goes I've got to be  
> The meaning of my life is  
> She  
> She...  
> Oh, she


End file.
